


deadbeat

by cookiethewriter



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: I can't even believe how easy this is to write, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, RoMox is my shit rn, doctor!Roman, hold onto your butts, indie-wrestler!Mox, joelle wants to color mox some pictures, kind of a slow-burn?, maturematuremature, referenced past!rape, roman just wants mox to let him care for him, this is me being self-indulgent because of ONE POST I saw on tumblr once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:50:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7987459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiethewriter/pseuds/cookiethewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When plans to move and work in New York go awry and Roman Reigns is forced to wait for his dream to become reality, he packs up his bags and his four-year-old and heads to the slummy side of Cincinnati... he doesn't expect to get attached to the quirky clinic there, nor the staff. But, especially not the homeless kid who keeps glaring in his direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a post on Tumblr a while ago, talking about how cute Roman/Mox would be as a ship - calm, domineering Roman and young, arrogant Mox - and it got the wheels turning in my head. This isn't exactly canonical, obviously, but I'm going to keep them as in-character as I can while also throwing in my own flavor, my own twang, if you will. In any case, I hope you like it. And if not, nbd - as I said, this is pretty self-indulgent. 
> 
> If you decide to stick around for the ride, thank you in advance.
> 
> (It should be noted: there will be medical inaccuracies, because I only did minimal research about the 'doctor hierarchy' so I mean - if I get it wrong, just slap me behind the head and ignore it.)

_It shouldn't be this hard: 'Mr. Helmsley, I was wondering if you've heard back from New York'. It's a big step, Reigns, big move, but it's only what you've been talking about since high school. You can do this. Just go talk to 'im._

For all the psyching up he was trying to do, Roman still found himself nowhere near his boss' office, nowhere closer to his destination than his fantasies took him; he'd worked at his father's hospital in Florida almost as soon as he finished up medical school, unless one were to count the little odd jobs he did in high school, helping the janitor while he waited for his father to wrap up with any work that still needed doing. 

Of course, that hadn't been his initial plan (graduate high college, immediately move to New York to work at the hospital there and finish his internship and residency there), but he'd fallen in love, halting his dream so that another could take hold. They met in high school but only fell in love while he was in college, and things had taken an unexpected turn when his sweetheart turned out she was pregnant. He worked, so hard, damn-near  _tirelessly_   to make sure that he and his woman could live comfortably and, eventually, with their child. 

She was a model.  _Was._ For a while, before she really started to show, they let her continue with her shoots and her shows and the travel for them, but when she eventually had to put a fork in her dream, it took its toll on her. 

Trials and tribulations, ups and downs ... before life reached an all-time low. And young Roman, barely out of college, had to raise his newborn baby girl all by himself.

But he didn't let the unfortunate hand he'd been dealt deter him, no - he hurt to this day, but he let it  _urge_ him to be better, let it flourish into a fierce determination to prove to the world that yeah, he had next to  _no_ idea what he was doing as a man  _or_ a father, but damn it, he was going to do right by his little Joelle.

And she became his rock, his anchor - things had gotten rough, money-wise mostly, when he had take time off of work at the beginning to raise her - and drove him to succeed. Now, he was among the most talented, hard-working doctors; few worked harder than he did, spent countless hours patients he didn't have, made people smile when they thought there wasn't anything that ever could again. 

He brought flowers to recovering patients when no one else would come visit them. Even if they were his own.

 _Roman Reigns is a good person_ , they'd say,  _He's the kind of person the world needs more of._

Yet, here he was. 

Down the corridor, one of the nurses with pinned-back bright-orange hair walked toward him, her smile infectious, and it chases his nerves away almost immediately when she happily calls, "Dr. Reigns! Still going t' see you 'round for a while longer?"

Looking at the Irishwoman and offering a lopsided smile, his trademark, he reaches over to muss her fiery locks, much to her mock-chagrin. "I'm on my way to see Mr. Helmsley now, to check. Is he in his office, Becky?"

"Oi! That's  _Dr. Lynch_ to you!" she laughs, though, before pressing the clipboard in her arms to her chest. "And I think so. Last I hard, he was itchin' to fire someone. I like you, so don't get on 'is bad side." And while he can hear the joke in her voice, her eyes betray the sound, conveying nothing but genuine concern before she walks past. "Good luck, Roman."

And when she disappears into a patient's room, Roman's lips purse before he starts in the direction of Mr. Helmsley's office ... hoping not to be on the receiving end of that 'itch'.

* * *

"Ah, Dr. Reigns, just the man I wanted to see."

Yet, with the way his booming voice echoes within the large office, Roman can't help but wonder if he's made a mistake by coming here. 

"Um," he eloquently starts, and curses his nerves, digging down deep for the confidence he had just moments before. "Sir, I was just wondering if you've heard from New York. About my--"

"Yes, the fellowship, correct?"

"Yessir."

It's the first time he's seen a smile on Mr. Helmsley's face since he's woked here, so he takes it as a good sign, though for himself or for Roman the source is unclear; Hunter Helmsley was a man of one side, one personality, and that was whatever was 'best' for business. 

When the hospital was still Roman's father's, it was always what was best for the  _people_ \- the staff and the patients, but the aging man had to retire sometime, and Mr. Helmsley was one of the wealthiest businessmen in the Eastern United States. The older man would blow a fuse if he saw the quick turn-around of how things were run now, all board meetings instead of greeting the people, all tight handshakes instead of bright smiles and comforting embraces.

'Best for business' was just another name for 'best for Hunter Helmsley'.

Now, that meant if somebody was going against him, even in the patients' best interest, going against  _authority_ ... they packed up their things and were relieved of their job. And Roman was one of those that ... in a more accurate manner,  _bent the rules_ set by the Authority in order to ensure his patient's happiness and safety  _and_ not put himself in a position to lose his job. 

It had seemed to work, for as many years as he's worked here, but ... had he maybe not been careful enough?

"I actually got off the phone with them a little while ago - apparently, they've got no open positions at the current time," and suddenly, the ground underneath Roman is slipping away, and he feels like he's falling, his fingers tightening into white-knuckled fists on his lap, "-but they have put you on a wait list. Of course, there's no telling when things will turn in your favor."

And Roman has this urge to bury his face in his hands, but he fights it, as hard as it seems to be - he'd been counting on this, been counting on getting out of Florida and to New York before JoJo needed to start school in a few years. A wait list? Was he  _joking?_

"I know how badly you want to get out of Florida. I don't blame you," Mr. Helmsley continues when Roman makes no sign of argument, or any sign at all, really. "So I started looking into other offers you might be interested in, you know, while you wait for New York to open up for you." Sliding over a slip of paper, filled with a few smaller clinics and doctor's offices along the East Coast, Roman grabs for it.

"Uh huh," he utters, reading through names in Connecticut and Maine and he drags a large hand over his mouth; these were all good-- well, they were opportunities, but he'd  _really_ wanted New York. His deep brown eyes work over the names before he pauses on one of the last names on the list: a small clinic in Cincinnati, Ohio in need of a head doctor. Pursing his lips, he leans back in his chair, before he looks up again. 

Mr. Helmsley has his fingers folded under his chin, almost knowingly, lips curled in a smile that shouldn't look as sinister as it does. Scrunching up his mouth once more in thought, Roman taps the name. "Here. Cincinnati."  _It's like ... it's like I'm being called there. I can't explain it._ "I'll go to Cincinnati. But just until a spot opens up, right?"

"Right. I'll make the call tonight. Be ready to pack up by the end of the week - and congratulations, Dr. Reigns."

Nodding his head at the indirect dismissal, Roman refrains from bowing his head and exits the large man's office.

* * *

Saying goodbye was a bittersweet affair - Roman was well-liked by everyone, so there was no shortage of tears had on his behalf, but a lot of those tears weren't from sorrow. They were all, collectively, happy and excited along with him, at this new step, even if was just a placeholder for the  _real_ accomplishment that was sure to come his way. 

"I'll miss you, Roman Reigns," a mildly-inebriated Rebecca Lynch drapes her arm around his back, more or less tucking herself under his arm, and Roman finds himself laughing and tugging her in close; she was only an intern, but the older man had taken to her as soon as she started, handling the patients well and cracking jokes and keeping things light, equally matching a temper that was as fiery as her hair. 

He would probably miss her the most. 

"Hold down the fort for me, will ya?" he asks in a thick voice, emotion-heavy but not near its breaking point yet. "What am I sayin', you'll be running this place with that 'straight-fiyah' attitude of yours in no time."

By the end of the week, he's more tired than he thought, but he waves goodbye to his home-away-from-home with a smile, doesn't let his wariness show, before he's driving back in the direction of his parents' house. 

* * *

"Now, you're sure you've got enough gas to get you to Cinci?" his mother says, grabbing for her wallet before he can even get an answer out. "Have enough money for a place, know where you're going? Got emergency money put away for--"

" _Ma,_ " Roman laughs, pulling his mother into a one-armed hug, and hears JoJo squeal happily in the back seat at the exchange. Looking behind him to flash a happy grin at his daughter, he looks back at his mother and drops lingering kisses to her cheeks. "We're all set - the clinic has an apartment above it, we're going to live there. I've already taken care of it." Lopsided grin, then he scratches at his cheek, a couple days' stubble filling in the space between his goatee and small sideburns. "I  _love_ you. We'll be okay. I'll call ya' when I get there."

Turning to climb into the driver's seat - and reaching back to play with JoJo's feet, bare now as she had kicked off her shoes - he pushes in a CD, some Disney soundtrack, before backing out of his parents' driveway. 

"Don't you worry, sweet pea," Roman looks in the rear-view mirror, talking to the little girl currently singing her own rendition of  _A Whole New World_. "Everything's gonna be alright."

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it just go on record that I've never been to Cincinnati. I just know that Dean (because it feels weird to call him 'Jon' when I don't know him personally??) grew up in a not-so-great neighborhood and I kind of envisioned a slummy, gross street corner with grayed and dirty everything.
> 
> (Also, it's been a long time since I've been around a four year old - the only ones I have that I remember are now 14 and almost 10. ;-; Where does the time go... so let's just say JoJo is very articulate for a four year old, in case they're not, LOL.)

"This... this can't be right..."

It wasn't that there were cars blocking his path, slowing his speed down the slummy side of Cincinnati; he had been under the impression that,  _yeah_ , he was going to be dealing with somewhere that  _anything_ like Pensacola. But he didn't think it was going to be this...  _this._

Kids, teenagers, people of all shapes and colors ran down the road, paying no heed to the SUV driving slowly behind them. Roman was driving so slowly, barely moving at all, that his foot wasn't even on the accelerating pedal, instead hovering over the brake in case he needed to stop. It was a constant pull and push, getting through this street, but at least he can see the clinic's sign in the distance. 

Well, at least they were almost there. 

When it was obvious he wouldn't be able to park in front of the building, all thanks to the fleshy traffic in front of him, the Floridan native scrunched up his lips and pulled into a parking spot in front of a building next to the clinic.  _Dr. Regal's Medical Clinic._

"Here we are, darlin'," clicking off the radio and taking the key out of the ignition, he looks back to fix his little girl a smile. "That building there," he points to the little painted-brick building, watching her brown eyes follow his finger before she glances back at him, "That's where daddy's gonna work for a while. Maybe they got some toys you can play with."

At the 't' word, JoJo bounces excitedly in her car seat. "Yay!"

As he opens the door, Roman can immediately tell the difference between Pensacola and Cincinnati that isn't obvious at face value: the smell. 

Pensacola was a small beach town, the air crisp with a tinge of salt; this part of Cincinnati, slums if he ever saw 'em ... stale, cigarette smoke and greasy food. Suddenly he wonders if it was a good idea, coming here, despite his already agreeing to take the job.

Wrinkling his nose, he runs around to JoJo's side of the car and opens her door, smiling when he hears her giggle and kicking her legs around. He makes quick work of slipping her sandals back on before unbuckling her, reaching beside her for the stuffed dog she went nowhere without and nuzzling it into the side of her neck to tickle her. 

He turns away while she scoots out of her chair, tugging on his gray collared button-down shirt over his jeans, before he sees a shorter figure behind him out of the corner of his eye, leaning against the wall. 

Roman's learned, over the course of his lifetime, to watch without being seen, and he puts that skill to use now:

A young man, naked chest covered only by a ratty denim vest with dried  _something_ staining the collar of it; a pair of dirty, holey jeans loosely adorns narrow hips, long legs with thighs ticker than the rest of him; light brown hair falls in unruly, bent lines in front of eyes that Roman can't see completely, but they're narrowed in his direction - at him or at his car or whatever, he isn't sure, can't try to figure out without making himself known to the other, so he leaves it alone. 

Turning back to his daughter, he picks her up and has half a mind to carry her from the SUV to the door of the clinic, but he wants to give the impression that he isn't a paranoid young father in a place where he has nothing but protective instinct shooting up his spine and down his bloodstream. Setting her down, instructing her quietly to  _hold my hand, baby_ , he helps her up onto the curb and closes the big door, this time able to get a better, if brief, look at the other man and he feels a drought in his throat suddenly. 

He's nursing a lit cigarette between his fingers and the doctor again has half a mind to knock the cancer stick onto the sidewalk, but he doesn't get a chance because suddenly the younger man flicks it to the ground, far away from them, and is looking at JoJo like she's about to devour him, all pressed against the wall and eyebrows scrunched over his eyes and...

"Jonathan, what have I told you about loitering about? Have you got anything better to do than scowl at people, a street corner to hug or something?"

... and the young man - Jonathan, apparently - draws his attention to an Englishman with shoulder-length graying hair, bringing Roman's along with it, leaving JoJo blissfully unaware of what had just transpired as she hugs her stuffed dog to her chest. 

A look of defiance passes over his face, then, mouth opening to speak before Jonathan looks down at JoJo again and turns to walk away, haughtily stepping on his burning cigarette butt as he stalks away. 

And Roman watches, quietly, head tilted to the side a little before he hears the older man's footsteps coming toward him, hand stretched out in greeting and expression lighter than the harsh, scolding tone his voice had taken. "You'll have to excuse me, I'm usually not so impolite. My name is Dr. William Regal. I own the little clinic next door."

"Oh, no, it's - I'm Roman Reigns, from Pensacola?"

"Ah yes, Mr. Reigns - may I call you Roman? Or would you prefer Dr. Reigns, perhaps?"

Roman is much more at ease than he was a few minutes ago, offering a little grin toward Regal. "Roman is fine. ...oh, this is Joelle, my daughter."

"Miss Joelle," Regal bends at the waist and holds his hand out to her, but instead of merely shaking it, the young girl giggles and places her stuffed dog's paw in it. "Ah, your dog, very polite. Hello there, pup."

Roman watches for a second as the two become acquainted, looking away without realizing where his eyes are meant to fall before he finds a curled-up figure sitting on a bench in the distance, one jean-clad knee pulled as the other dangles to the ground, black boots laced on his feet, fingers twitching and clenching and face hidden once more under his hair. His daughter's laughter dies off, her words sweet and polite, and he looks back down at her to rub the top of her hair before he looks back up at Regal. 

"Uh, he, um ... is he gonna cause any trouble?"

"Who, Jon? No, no. He mostly clings to the streets, doesn't cause any trouble but always finds himself in it. I wouldn't pay him any mind." Waving his hand, Regal casts a look over Roman's shoulder, eyes narrowing as if in warning before he casts a friendly look at the Floridan. "Well, I shouldn't be so rude; you and the little miss, why don't you come inside? I'll show you the office, your apartment, and make us some tea."

"You got coffee?" Roman's voice is friendly, and if one were to compare the tones of voice of the two men,  _his_ would seem more genuine. It sounded kinder, in his own ears, too. Perhaps he'd have to ask Regal more about this area, maybe this street. Maybe about Jon. 

Regal's laugh is breathy, yet carries a boisterous echo to it as it carries down the street. "Ah, hah, my boy. Of course. Would you or your pup like some coffee or tea, Miss Joelle?"

And before she can answer, Roman quickly cuts in, both to her chagrin and Regal's amusement. 

"She'll take milk."

* * *

The tour wasn't anything extravagant, but Roman can't exactly complain. 

Regal leads him and a happy Joelle through the clinic, small enough where Roman can hear his daughter from any room in the small building as long as the doors are open; there are four examination rooms, one room for small surgeries, all of moderate size; a small television hung on the wall of each room; at the end of the hall is a small supply closet filled with boxes and shelves of supplies, aprons, masks and gloves. A bathroom sits beside it, clean and sterile.

It's small enough that he can carry himself through it easily, can flow through it like a river through a wood, and he can worry about the specifics of it later, truthfully. There's staff to meet on Monday, records to sift through, and he wants to meet some of his regular customers to get to know them, but ... he and Joelle have unpacking to do, cleaning and organizing to do in their new apartment. 

The rent is cheap, he can practically scrape by on pocket change here, but he's courteous and pays as much as he can up front, confident he won't be here long enough to worry about buying out the place. This won't be his permanent home. 

Regal had left about an hour ago, leaving the small family to their unpacking after giving them a brief tour of the apartment; two bedrooms, a study filled with medical books and a computer hooked up to what he hoped was faster than dial-up internet, a small kitchen and dining room and bathroom in the back. It's large enough for them to move freely, but small still, in a comfortable way. 

It takes double the time the tour had taken to get their boxes upstairs - there's a staircase on the side of the building leading up to the roof of the apartment, painted brick to faded red and glass windows looking out over the streets. He situates all of JoJo's boxes in her room, letting her dig through one of her boxes of toys to start putting them away as he starts to unpack things in the kitchen, filling the cabinets with plates and bowls and cups. 

The coffee maker sits prettily in the corner when he's finished, prepared for tomorrow morning, before he walks over to the pile of cardboard boxes in front of his bedroom door and reaches back to pull the band out of his hair, rubbing his thick fingers through his dark, wavy hair and rubbing at the back of his hair where a few snarls had taken refuge. 

Unpacking was a nightmare. He could use a break, and judging by the sound of JoJo playing in the other room with toys she was supposed to be putting away, she could too. So, walking around the clutter in the hallway and dipping into her room - it wasn't as messy as he thought, her blanket arranged partially up the mattress and a few stuffed animals messily thrown at the headboard - he picks her up, letting her hand upside down before he drops her onto her bed and tickles her ribs. 

"JoJo, quit squirmin', I'm trying to talk to you--"

"Daddy,  _noo_!"

He tickles her for a second longer before he watches her squirm on her bed, batting at his hands like a playful kitten. Leaning forward, he kisses her cheek and rubs his small beard against her skin, delighting in her little squeak before he leans back. 

"You wanna go get some dinner? How about, some... pizza?"

He remembered seeing a pizza parlor a few buildings back, conveniently, and waggles his eyebrows as she nods enthusiastically. "Okay, go get your jacket, it's starting to cool down, baby."

He exits her room as she does as he says, and when he feels her literally on his heels, he reaches back to tickle her belly and laughs mightily when she squeals in return.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I said I was going on a 'writing vacation', I mostly meant for 'light and heat'. Meanwhile, you're all stuck with my self-indulgent rarepair bullshit. 
> 
> Can't. Stop. Me. Nooooow.

About halfway through their walk, JoJo decided that she wanted to use the edge of the sidewalk as a balance beam, and who is Roman to stop her? He watches, letting her balance on her own and pitching forward to keep her from falling in the road; the pizza place is a little further than he had originally thought, but it isn't like he's going to complain about spending the extra time with his daughter. 

The streets had mostly cleared out from earlier that afternoon, leaving only a few people roaming the sidewalk, and to their credit only a couple of them tried to bum a cigarette - or a light - off of him. He wasn't sure how many times, between the clinic and their destination, he had said the words 'Sorry, buddy, I don't smoke' but if he had to say it again, he might pick JoJo up and just order a pizza to be delivered. 

The small sign over the door convinces him that, probably, he couldn't have done that, not at the way his daughter's eyes widen with glee at the sight and smell of a waitress carrying a tray of pizza and drinks over to an outside table. She grabs his hand, shaking his arm, before he lets her tug him inside, just barely missing a shoulder to his chest as someone runs past him. 

There's a small line of people in front of the counter, all trying to talk over each other, all louder and ruder than the person in front of them and he wonders if maybe this was a bad idea again. Taste of pizza be  _damned_ , this isn't the kind of atmosphere he wanted to teach JoJo was okay to frequent. Bending down to lift her up onto his hip, he carries her to the line, occasionally feeling his nose twitch in the beginnings of a scowl as he tries to keep his temper in check, the angry hound at bay. 

His daughter's hands on his cheeks helps a lot with that as he places a kiss to her wrist and feels rather than sees her tuck her head onto his shoulder, hair tickling the side of his neck.

And the line goes quickly, despite the angry outbursts of customers and the howls over the counter of  _Can ya fuckin' hurry up with my order?_ , which is something that Roman is grateful for, honestly, because when it's time for his turn, he's all too happy to do so, his voice even and calm.

"I'll take, ah, a large Hawaiian and large cheese. Please."

And the man behind the counter - kinda young, short brown hair and a long beard and blue eyes - smiles this smile as if he's seeing the human personification of goodness and he nods his head. "Coming right u--"

"Help! I need a doctor!"

JoJo sits up, her body jerking with the motion as she smacks at her father's shoulder because she sees who's talking first, and Roman turns around. And his entire body flinches; his eyes widen, lips part as he utters a gasp before he looks at the guy behind the counter with equal parts concern as he does pride. "Dunno if you do this here, but could you deliver that to the clinic a few buildings away?"

Counter Guy nods his head. "Sure, man, no problem. Got a name on that order?"

"Reigns. Roman Reigns." Roman turns away, fishing out his wallet and jerking out a couple of bills - too much for the order, but before Counter Guy can plead that it was too much, that he should take some of it back, he leans over and grins. "With what you've had to deal with today? Keep all the change as a tip. You deserve it for your patience, guy." And with that, he steps out of the line at the groaned relief - he wasn't even in line that long, people,  _god_ \- of the other customers and runs toward the distressed young man. 

And he's finally taking in the picture in front of him: a short guy, pointy black hair with lighter tips spiked up in some messy, straight-edge hairdo, his body covered in a thin tee shirt and sagging jeans with his arm wrapped around a lither body, whose got blood dropping down his face and his hair darkened with sweat. Contrasting the other, the injured young man is dragged down by a baggy sweatshirt that swallows up his upper half and jeans that are too big on hips that are too small. 

"The clinic's just down the road. Let's go."

And he misses the way the other twitches, tries to jerk out of the other's hold, but there's a quiet "C'mon, Jon, ya gotta let 'im look at ya," that makes Roman's breath catch. Leading the way with JoJo unabashedly staring over his shoulder, he leads the pair back toward the small building. 

* * *

After instructing the shorter young man - Sami Callihan, twenty-three years old - to bring 'Jon' into one of the patient rooms, Roman makes quick work of putting JoJo into one of the other ones, handing her a pen from one of the drawers and pulling out some of the paper towels from the dispenser, asking her with a honey-sweet smile to draw him a picture he could hang somewhere. 

( _"Can I draw one for Mr. Jon?"_

_"Sure, baby, just stay in here."_ )

"Okay," he says, having slipped on his white doctor coat and pulling out a pair of latex gloves from the box on the counter-top, washing his hands at the small sink. "So. What happened?"

Sami opens his mouth, but immediately is silenced with an elbow to his arm, and he narrows his eyes at the bloody young man beside him. "He's a  _doctor_ , Mox, gotta tell 'im. S'not a cop."

_"He doesn't cause trouble, but always finds himself in it."_

Dr. Regal's voice rings in his ears again, and equal parts concern and hesitance cause his stomach to do some sort of weird jump and twist. Roman has to push that aside, has to ignore that growing anxiety even if it's making him want nothing more than to grab Regal by the shirt and demand  _what kinda trouble._ Still, he walks over and in an achingly slow pace, reaches for Jon's - Mox's? - bloody face to cup his chin, but finds himself on the receiving end of a hard bite. 

"Ah-!" he hisses, shaking his hand and looking at the assailant, who hasn't yet met his gaze. Brown eyes softened - what could have happened to him for that to be an immediate reaction to what was  _supposed_ to be gentle, concerned. And Mox,  _oh my god_ , he might not be looking at Roman then but the expression on his face is so close to something hateful, dirty, and it causes something else entirely to twist painfully in his gut.

Quietly standing up again, Sami and Roman find each other's gazes, and there must be something going on with Mox that Roman can't see because Sami's immediately turning to the other and saying something quietly into his face, a few words just barely being made out: 'bad'. 'Regal'. 

And even as he washes his hands again, slipping on his gloves as soundlessly and painlessly as possible, he sits back down and tries again when Sami utters a remorseful "He's sorry, dude." Roman smiles then, nodding his head, before turning his attention back to Mox whose lip is already curled in a snarl, daring him,  _challenging him_ , to  _touch me again, motherfucker, see what'll happen._

Sighing through his nose, Roman drops his hands onto his knees and pushes himself up, simultaneously pushing the chair away with his foot in order to kneel a bit in front of the other. The snarling stops, and for the first time since he'd seen him earlier this afternoon, Mox and Roman's eyes meet, the former's just a little frantic, a little wild and it does nothing to quell the hesitance in Roman's stomach. 

"Just trying to see if you need stitches, uh?" he says, seeing the guy's jaw visibly clench and he swallows before the younger lifts his chin up, a little slowly, as if it's painful to succumb to someone else's tender care. Taking this as a sign that he wouldn't, at  _least_ , bite him again, Roman carefully rests his gloved fingers upon his jaw, absently letting them rub along the tense, hard muscle in soothing circles as he simultaneously turns his head this way and that. 

Mox stays watching him the entire time.

Sami is squeezing Mox's arm, and as he pulls away after his examination, he can see that all of the patient's body has begun to shake, his eyes dropping to his lap.

"It looks like you'll live. Gotta clean you up though. Might need something on this cut on your head."

His response is a sniff, but no more eye contact. 

Roman takes that as confirmation that he'd heard and he tugs off his gloves to, one more time, wash his hands of the powdery residue from the inside of the gloves. Grabbing a wash cloth from the cabinet above him and sticking it under warm water, rubbing his thumbs along the soft cotton, he wonders idly if what Regal said to him earlier about Mox was actually supposed to be a warning of some kind, a  _you have a child, don't bother yourself with another one_ , or perhaps something more unkind. 

He got that vibe from the old doctor - not that he was cruel or dangerous, just unkind.

Turning back to his patient after squeezing the excess water out, he watches with patient eyes, stretching out his hand between Mox and Sami for one of them to do it because he is  _damn_ sure that he'd get worse than bite marks on worse than his hand if he tries to clean up his face and wherever it dripped down to. When the latter takes it with a nod of gratitude and starts wiping at the former's face, Roman walks away. 

"Are either of you hungry?"

Sami doesn't pause to answer, instead pauses to smack Mox's hand away when he goes to rub at his face. "I'm good." Roman doesn't look, but his back isn't completely facing them anymore as he looks out the doorway and sees the bearded fellow in a red shirt and black pants making his way to the door. "Wha'bout you, Moxley?"

_Jonathan? Mox? Moxley? How many names does this kid have?_

And there's this beat of silence that has the older man looking behind him once more, body half out of the room, and Mox is shaking his head, but it's less an  _I'm not hungry_ and more of a plea to get him the  _hel_ _l_ out of here, and the twist is back, but Roman knows it's got no place inside him. Turning out of the door and offering a wave toward the bearded man, he takes the two boxes - and complimentary box of Parmesan bread bites for his kindness and 'cute daughter' - and waves once more in thanks. 

He also learns Counter Guy's name is Bryan and that he's welcome to call for him to personally deliver pizza here anytime.

With a smile, he walks the boxes of pizza into the room he'd left JoJo in and sets them on the counter. "Hey baby, how's it going? Hungry?"

"Yeah!" she jumps up as Roman stacks a couple more paper towels on top of each other and opens the cheese pizza first, getting her a slice and instructing her to sit down on the bed. When she situated there, he hands her a slice and praises her for how good she's been before he starts to walk out.

Her voice calls to him. "Wait, daddy! Give this to Mr. Jon!"

He turns back, watching her slide off the bed to grab one of the pieces of paper she'd scribbled on before toddling over, pushing it into his stomach. Taking it, he raises it to get a better look before a smile stretches his lips: it's a picture of Mox, as close as a four year old could make it, with yellow hair and blue eyes. In the corner is her signature 'JOJO' in all capital, green letters. 

Before he can say anything, she's already gone back to the bed to finish her pizza, and Roman knows he's still smiling, so he doesn't say anything else as he walks back into the other room.

And he feels like he should be surprised by what he sees, but he isn't. Feels like the empty room except for a few crumpled bills on the bed should fill him with frustration, but all he feels is this quiet acceptance as he walks over to smooth out the bills of higher value than what he'd have expected. 

If anything, he's more disappointed that he didn't get to give Mox the piece of paper towel he's currently folding inside his doctor's coat.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...wow. It's not so much I'm shocked that people are liking this (not that I thought people would, I'm still hella new in this fandom LOL) as I am that people are enjoying RoMox. When I find the OP on Tumblr who had mentioned it, I'll have to send them a 'thank you'. 
> 
> NOTE: I uh. I tried to write an Irish accent. I hope you all can understand it.

Life resumes as usual.

After that day, he doesn’t see Mox again, and it’s not exactly a huge loss as he’s had to focus on the job he’d actually come to Cincinnati for in the first place. The first week of business is focused mainly on meeting the patients he’ll be stuck with, some recovering from injury or illness and others just as influential as a child when it comes to late-night infomercials about medication for serious health issues they think they have.

It’s mostly just middle-aged women, he’s noticed, and they all ask where ‘William’ is, to which Roman politely answers, “Dr. Regal is taking the night appointments for a while. I’m taking over his daytime position,” and it suits them just fine, it seems, because the moment his gentle hands skim over their bruised ankles or touches their hands by means of comfort, they’re putty, smiling at him like he’s some celebrity.

He’s always had that effect on women, Roman’s found.

Days drag on to weeks, and he and Regal have made fast work of finding their rhythm; there are a few nurses that work around the clock, one with Roman in the morning and another in the afternoon, while two work at the same time with Regal at night. And he likes his nurses fine: Bayley, a brunette with a big smile who works especially well with kids and always brings breakfast in the form of glazed pastries and a pink frosted doughnut for JoJo, and Finn, a young lad with a thick Irish accent who knows as much about Legos as he does about medicine.

They’re a comfortable bunch. Almost as comfortable as his team in Pensacola, and he finds himself thinking that Becky would probably like them - would enjoy Bayley’s hugs and Finn’s enthusiasm.

Life goes on, and he doesn’t see Mox.

Until he does.

* * *

“Roman, I’m almost ready to leave,” Bayley pokes her head into his office, loose brown hair slipping over her purple scrubs and jacket folded over one of her arms. “And I’ll make sure to have my mom drop me off earlier to make up for being late today. I promise!” And Roman’s got to hand it to her, having that much dedication over being only fifteen minutes late is charming of itself, and he smiles at her.

“I already told you, just come in when you normally come in. I ain’t gonna dock your pay for fifteen minutes.”

It wasn’t like they had that many patients in the morning, he added quietly to himself; Bayley only took the morning shift rather than the afternoon because her mother drove toward this way to get to her own job. And it wasn’t like it had any effect on her, working in the morning, because she was purely a ball of energy anyway, always happy to help and move.

Nodding her head, looking a little defeated, she smiles. “Did JoJo like the coloring book I got her? Has she started coloring in it yet?”

Roman stood up. “Yeah, she hasn’t really put it down. Oh, and she wanted me to give you this.”

Bayley steps inside the office as Roman reaches into a drawer in his desk, pulling out a colored-in picture of a bunny holding a carrot. Of course, the bunny was pink, holding a purple carrot, but by the bright laugh that escaped the brunette, he didn’t think she minded. “She colored this for me? Aw! She’s so cute!”

Roman’s heart swelled with pride. “Well, she’s in the room across the hall coloring if you wanna see her.”

“Really?” her eyes got wide then, like she was a child being handed sweets before dinner, before she exited with a spring in her step and went into the room, excited squeals and happy laughter bubbling out of the room and filling the entire clinic with something bright. Leaving the girls to their playing and their giggling, he walks out of the office and stands in front of the door, looking out the glass at the streets, the morning smog cleared out mostly and people starting to clog the sidewalks once more.

In the distance, he thought he saw a familiar head of shaggy brown hair, storming down the sidewalk like he owned the block, but his attention doesn’t stay on it long as he hears Bayley and a giggling JoJo chasing after her.

“I have to go, JoJo, but I’ll see you tomorrow!” Looking up from the little girl to her father, the brunette smiles. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah- hey, Bayley? If you’re ever looking to help out a little bit more--”

“I am! Oh, I’ll do whatever you-”

“--hold on now, darlin’, gotta let me get the words out.” His brown eyes sparkle, expression amused as he watches her face flush prettily and laugh quietly, apologizing. “I’m gonna need somebody to watch Jo while I’m working. If you’re willing to, I’d be happy to bump up your pay. You both can hang out in the apartment for a few hours and I’ll drive ya’ home, whaddaya say?”

“Well, I dunno,” she says thoughtfully, bending down to kneel in front of JoJo, whose eyes are wide and hands pressed together as if in prayer. “What do you think, huh? You want me to color with you, and make you lunch, and watch Disney movies with you- I don’t think she wants that, Roman. Do you?”

If JoJo’s face could have been brighter, it would have blinded them. Clapping her hands and spinning around, she jumps into Bayley’s arms and giggles at the big hug she gets.

“Guess that’s a yes,” Roman says. “I really appreciate it. When can ya’ start? ‘course, I can’t start your raised pay until your next paycheck, I hope that’s okay.”

Bayley’s smiling wide when she stands back up again. “That’s okay! I can start whatever day you want! I’m happy to watch her.”

“Okay,” the Samoan considers, tapping at his chin before smoothing out his goatee. “How about tomorrow? Do your morning shift like always, then I’ll give you the keys and you and Joelle can hang out until I’m done.”

“Okay!”

Waving as Bayley runs out the door, the young father heaves a sigh; that’s one worry taken care of, at least, as he couldn’t exactly have a four year old running around all hyper around patients. At least with happy-girl Bayley, he’s assured that she’ll be in good hands. Of course, there’s the notion of payment, as they hadn’t had as many patients lately as he’d have liked, but he’d worry about that later. First, it was time to get JoJo ready for lunch.

“Come on, sweet pea; let’s go upstairs and have some lunch before it gets real busy.”

“Mac’oni an’ cheese!”

“Okay, okay. Mac’oni and cheese it is.”

* * *

Happily sated with full bellies of cheesy goodness, Roman closes up the apartment with Joelle sitting on his shoulders, making his way back down to the clinic for the afternoon appointments; Finn had gotten there a little earlier, it seemed, and had taken it upon himself to clean up the front desk and organize some files, placing today’s patients files on top so Roman could flip through them.

“Hey there, Finn,” he calls, placing JoJo down and watching as she immediately runs to the Irish man to hug his legs. “Who have we got comin’ in today?”

Handing Roman the files - a little shakily, but the brunet swings an arm around JoJo in an awkward hug of greeting, much to her father’s amusement - Finn shifts blue eyes to the clock. “Mr. T’atcher is comin’ in at about one-t’irty for his leg, and Mrs. Gage has an appointment for her son to get stitches on his eyebrow. ‘parently, d’ey’re hearin’ reports of underground cage fightin’ or somet’in. Oh, and Ms. Callihan changed her appointment ta’ next week instead of today.”

Nodding a little absently, Dr. Reigns looks through the first file belonging to Mrs. Callihan’s boy, and his eyebrows raise to his hairline. “I recognize him. He came in a few weeks back with a friend of his…” _Matt? Mick? M-- Mox. Jonathan._ “Cage fighting, huh?”

“If that’s what d’ey’re sayin’,” Finn helpfully supplies, shrugging one shoulder before feeling his legs being released, and he rubs at his calf a little melodramatically before walking around. “I dunno, it seems a little too dangerous for the likes’a me.”

“I hear ya,” mumbles Roman, before he closes the file and places it back on the desk. “Anyway, you can go ahead and get a room set up for Mr. Thatcher, if you could. Some new dressings, make sure the paper on the cot is clean, you know. I’ll get JoJo here situated.”

Making sure that JoJo sits quietly at his desk - he remembered to fold her coloring book up to stash in his pocket so she can use it - with a box of crayons, Dr. Reigns drops a kiss to her thin brown hair before stepping out, closing the door softly; it’s nearly 1PM, so he’s not expecting to have more than a brief moment’s peace, but he enjoys it anyway as he walks toward the window, eyes passing over the sidewalk once more.

The streets had quieted down some since earlier, the lunch rush died down, but he can see that figure from earlier clearer now as he stands across the street, sort of glaring at the clinic or perhaps at Roman directly, he can’t be sure. Mox’s face is clean, neatly shaven, dry curls falling over his face messily to obscure his boyish face, but the Floridan can see past that. He’s not boyish at all.

A car pulls up next to Mox, but Roman can’t see who’s in the driver’s seat. Whatever exchange they’re having, it looks to be that Mox is on edge, tense, shoulders bunched up like he’s prepared to leap in to throttle whoever was inside the car… before he opens the car door.

And it might just be his imagination, but he’s pretty sure that he hears a raspy voice before the passenger door closes, but the words are unintelligible - it’s probably for the best, or at least he tells himself that, before he opens the door of the clinic, though he isn’t sure why. Or maybe he is, he’s not sure of that either, but when he sees a limping Mr. Thatcher making his way down the sidewalk, he latches onto his new-found excuse, face beaming and comforting.

“Here, let me help you inside, Mr. Thatcher.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everybody for leavin' comments and kudos! I really appreciate it. To show my gratitude, here: take some /actual/ interaction, with actual words. 
> 
> (Also, I'm still not good at writing Sami Callihan. Whoooooops.)

For the next week, around 1:30PM every day, Roman sees Mox standing across the street, his lanky body lost within the confines of some loose sweatshirt and jeans that look too big for him. And he doesn’t really question it, because it isn’t like it’s any of his business, but he’s pretty sure that from about that time to when he punches out, the young man is in and out of cars dropping him off at the same place, looking a little more worn out and more exhausted than the last time.

He hopes it’s the lesser of two evils - maybe he’s waiting outside for a ride to work, where he’s some freelance repairman or contractor or something where he can have money in his pockets at the end of the day, instead of waiting for a paycheck. Roman honestly doesn’t want to think of him being something of a … _drug dealer_ , because even if they’d met once for a half a second, JoJo thought so much of him already.

(She’d colored him a picture of a puppy from her coloring book - brown fur, blue eyes. Her name was in yellow capital letters in the corner.)

Occasionally she asked about him, why he didn’t come inside, _we have A/C_ she’d say, and he’d laugh and tell her, every time, _I’m not sure, baby_.

Not every night, but a couple of times, Roman sees the final vehicle drive up to that street corner, and Mox is a little shaky when he gets out of the car. And it’s not like it’s cold outside, not the kind that would elicit that kind of tremble from his body, and it’s these nights where the doctor seems a little too involved in what’s going on; a street lamp flickers over Mox’s head, and Roman can see shadows of dried red down his neck and some bruises on his face.

And suddenly, he finds himself thinking of what Finn’s been saying. Those ‘cage matches’. And suddenly Roman is hyper-aware of the knot in his forehead, the leer in his eyes as he watches Mox turn into an alleyway just a few feet before the corner and duck into darkness. As Dr. Reigns says goodbye to Finn and holds JoJo close as she snoozes lazily against his shoulder, he can hear a hoarse “Fuck!” coming from down that alley.

A few times, he’s almost gone over there. But he stops himself, at the last second, because he’s come to the conclusion that maybe Mox doesn’t like him. Why else wouldn’t he walk his ass over to the clinic to get checked out, if he was hurting so badly?

But Roman can’t exactly judge - he didn’t like to show weakness either, even in the form of a stubbed toe. However minor, he was a man, and he had to be a man.

This night in particular is when things change.

He tucks his little girl into bed and waits until she’s completely asleep before he puts on a coat and waits by the small window by the kitchen table, watching. Just in time, he sees Mox get out of the car - it’s one of the nights where he’s got dried blood on his face, his body bent up a little too much like it’s been thrown around a tree or something perhaps more sinister, a sneer on his lips.

But it doesn’t stop there as a larger man gets out of the car, following behind him, and pushes Mox’s face into the sidewalk, as the other crumples down beneath him.

Now, Roman’s no superhero - he’s still built like a powerhouse, all broad shoulders and thick muscles thanks to his days working out - but he would consider himself brave in the face of danger. Especially when it came to people who might not be able to be, and right now, Roman didn’t feel much bravery coming off of Mox; there was no fear, but he didn’t exactly see him do more than meekly struggle against the weight at his back. The last time they’d been close enough together for him to be able to see, he only saw a bent-up aggression behind his eyes, blue as the ocean, white teeth bared in a dangerous snarl that-

-when had he left the apartment?

The voice was low, perhaps of the same timbre his was, but was a lot more scratchy. It didn’t look like it matched the round face of Mox’s attacker at all. “You wanna gyp me outta my money, huh Moxley? Parade your pretty ass around, promise me a happy ending, then what? You fuckin’ choke. You’re gonna pay for that, you little bi--”

And honestly, Roman can’t even lie and say that he’d not known himself to have that much speed, because for his size, the Samoan was heavily aware of how quickly he could move from one end of the street to the next. Especially when someone was in danger. But one moment he’s standing at the foot of his steps, and the next he’s tackling the other man into the alley, hair starting to slip from the bun it’d been in.

“Think you can talk to people like that, huh? Do ya?” Roman’s voice barely gets this low, but it does its purpose as he climbs up off of the young man and gets in real close to his face, smelling of booze and stale sweat. “I better _never_ hear you talk that way to him _ever_ again. Maybe buy yourself some mouthwash and take a shower, huh?”

“Piss off,” the guy says, but his words are too big for him as he slinks off in the direction of his car, his arm bent around his midsection. Satisfied that he won’t be coming back over, Roman steps out of the alleyway, just in time to see Mox pushing himself back up using the wall, back onto shaky legs, his fingers curled into the brick and clawing into the hard surface.

The car drives away, leaving them under a flickering lamp, and Roman stops himself from hovering in order to lean his arm against the wall, giving him space to dust himself off. “You okay?”

Coughing into the wall, Mox spins to lean against it before he digs into his pocket for something, then swearing. “Fuck. Forgot my fuckin’ cigarettes.”

“Are you okay?”

And suddenly, the defiant blues that he remembered are glaring up into his face, breaths coming out in shallow pants before he crosses his arms over his chest, lips pursed and nose wrinkled and eyebrows furrowed. “Fuckin’ fine. What the fuck’re _you_ doin’ out here.”

The question, filled with broken words as it was, is a decent one that Roman doesn’t want to think about. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders, appearing nonchalant as if it’s something anyone would do. “You saying I should have let that guy treat you like that?”

And there’s this look that passes over Mox’s face, like he wants to say something to Roman, but something much more dirty and bitter passes over his pale face before he pushes away, using the wall and, when he gets there, Roman’s hard body to get him toward the alley. “Did’n hear me askin’ for help, did ya’? No. ‘s none’a your _damn_ business.”

With that, Mox disappears down the alley, and he’s not sure why, but Roman sighs before stepping back toward the apartment, walking up the stairs like he’s victorious despite having gotten chewed out by some proud brat like Mox. A little grin appears on his lips as he turns back around, hearing a _“Haaaaah”_ coming from inside the alley, and goes inside.

And if he plates up some macaroni and cheese in a container, along with a thermos of coffee, and leaves it outside the alleyway a few hours later, well, then that would be for his own benefit, not for Mox’s.

* * *

 

JoJo is up earlier than Roman is the next morning, playing with her stuffed dog and sitting on top of the kitchen table and watching out the window at the foggy morning traffic as the Cincinnati people all headed to work. He’s not surprised in the slightest that she’s got a big smile on her face when she greets him, not the least bit guilty, not making any move to move from her spot and he laughs, walking over to her to place her in her little booster seat.

Looking out the window in what he hopes is a nonchalant gaze, he finds his eyes locking on the alleyway, the things he’d left out for Mox weren’t there, and rather than hope that he’d taken it, he hoped more than nobody else did.

* * *

 

“Are you okay, Roman?”

Looking over from where he stood - in front of one of three filing cabinets, digging through a drawer, through the **M** section of files - he fixes Bayley with a thoughtful look, because he’s sure he’s okay in theory. “Yeah, yeah - you live here long?”

“My whole life! Though, I live in a nicer part of Cincinnati - this is a poorer community. Why?”

Closing the drawer when he found no indication of a **Moxley** inside, he paces back to his desk for a brief moment. “I’ve lived here all of, maybe, a month, and I keep seein’ this kid standing across the street, all bloody and shit. Uh, stuff,” he amends when Bayley flinches slightly, “I was looking to see if there was any medical record, maybe Dr. Regal kept one around, but I don’t see anything.”

Curiosity killed the Bayley as she pads over, chewing on her lip. “If you’re talking about Jon Moxley … I would suggest talking to Mr. Regal about him. It’s kinda… personal, why he doesn’t have any record. Truth is, thinking about it all makes me uncomfortable.”

_What the hell? What did he do?_ Flinching away from that thought, the Samoan walks forward to place a warm palm against his nurse’s shoulder, giving it a comforting pat, before he amends once more, “Don’t then, I’m only curious. Any patients coming in?”

The change in topic is abrupt, but it’s a welcome feeling before Bayley nods. “A Sami Callihan is coming in soon with his mother. I’ll ready one of the rooms for you.”

“Thanks, Bayley.”

* * *

“Alright, Sami, you’re all set.”

Cutting the extra stitching off and tossing it in the garbage pail, Roman seats himself in front of Sami and admires his handiwork, satisfied; Sami had walked into the clinic with a cloth pressed to his eye, blood dried onto it all over and he has the decency, at least, to reassure the doctor that a lot of the dried blood wasn’t from that one wound. And, while it stirs up a whole lot of other questions, he confirms after an uneventful check of the rest of him that he has no open wounds, just bruises and scars from healing ones.

There’s a part of Roman - it’s not even a quiet part; it’s very, very loud and very, very dominant inside his head - wondering just _what the hell_ he had been doing that split his eyebrow.

“Ain’t like you’re in trouble or anything, but mind tellin’ me how you split open your eyebrow?”

Watching Sami squirm a bit on top of the cot, fingers closing and opening in nervous fists, the dark haired man looks to the door, Roman following suit; he had left the door ajar per the younger’s mother’s request, but as the worst of it was finished, he was sure he could stand to close it. So, getting up and making sure the mother was sitting in a chair in the waiting area, he closes the door and sits down, remaining calm and comforting.

But, he’s having trouble talking about it - not fear, there’s no fear, just hesitance, as if he isn’t sure if Roman can be trusted to hear the information. Easing the tension out of his shoulders, Sami fixes the brown-eyed with a scrutinizing look, reading him, then his nostrils flare. “Ya know, ‘s like this… this small trainin’ camp thing that happens at night - kinda like wrestling, but more like street fighting?” It’s said more in the form of a question, as if he’s asking someone if that were correct, before he shakes his head, less in a negative sign and more of a twitch and fidget. “People keep sayin’ it’s like, underground illegal shit, but ‘s totally fine and we have little competitions and shit too. Took a shard’a glass into my eye when I ducked my head.”

“Oh.”

_Real articulate._

“Is there medical staff? Supervision? A plan in case something goes wrong?”

This is the father in him asking, he’s positive, but the doctor in him has got to know, too. He swears.

“’s overseen by a guy name Les Thatcher. S’yeah, there’s always a few trainers nearby, and plenny’a refs. ‘s totally safe.”

_My ass._ “How exactly does one acquire a ticket to one of these, uh, competitions?”

“Yer’ not gonna snitch, right?” _Now_ he’s worried about that?

“No. Just wanna make sure there’s really nothing too dangerous goin’ on. Doctor in me’s a little wary.” _Not just the doctor part._

“Oh, right right, sorry dude,” yet, he doesn’t sound too sorry, as Sami hops off the cot and digs something out of his baggy pants pocket, shoving a ticket into Roman’s hand. “Guy I invited bailed at last sec, so yer’ lucky. Only one rule though, ya’ can’t tell _nobody_.”

Roman nods. “Alright. When and where?”

“Aaaaall on the ticket, dude,” and with that, Sami sashays out of the room, the sound of his mother’s relieved wailing and cooing filling the near-empty clinic. When the bell above the door chimes as it’s opened and again as it closes, and a whoosh of air leaves Roman’s mouth in a sigh before he gets up, stuffing the ticket into his pocket, before exiting the patient room.

He’d look at it later.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of why I wanted to write this. I love watching Mox's matches a little more than I enjoy his promos, so under the guise of 'research', I picked a few I really liked and just binge-watched. 
> 
> If you have any favorites, let me know! (My personal favorite is the Drunken Death Match vs Neil Diamond Cutter. It never ceases to make me laugh, honestly.)

It was a mistake coming here.

The date printed on the ticket had said Friday night, the location an old warehouse - not decrepit or broken or wicked old, but a little beaten-looking from what he could tell - and he suddenly feels like he’s walked into some crime show, walking into an abandoned building with anticipation buzzing in his veins.

He’s glad Bayley had nothing going on so she could watch JoJo at such late notice.

There was a crowd of maybe, _maybe_ , fifty people seated in steel chairs dispersed all around a cheap ring, ropes in rows of three of different colors with duct tape just barely holding everything together. It looked like something a poor man might conjure up, before the thought made him flinch.

There was a number printed on the ticket, and he found it was right in the first row, behind a mat that acted as a barricade. Indistinct rock music echoed throughout the room, making the room buzz as muffled conversations added to the sound, but it all dulled in comparison to his own heartbeat in his ears.

Roman was a fan of wrestling since he was a kid - but there was something about this that seemed different. Professional wrestling had an entertainment value, with flashing lights and pyrotechnics and acrobatics - he might not have seen anything yet, but judging by what Sami had been saying, he could only assume that this was more along the lines of street fighting.

The lights blared on the canvas, drawing his attention to it and wincing against the white glare. The event was set to start any moment, the anticipating crowd whispering excitedly around him and while he can’t bring himself to completely care about the words they were saying, a name he recognizes slips from the lips of a man behind him.

_“Moxley’s obviously the weakest link of the Switchblades; some junkie street trash, just like his mother.”_

His nostrils flare as he exhales, arms crossing over his chest, and he leans back against his chair; he’s got this strange urge to turn around and give the guy a solid right punch to the jaw, but he isn’t sure why, has got no reason to feel this way, but his temper is a lot easier to control than anybody else’s and he quickly reminds himself that he doesn’t want to start a brawl in the crowd before the _real_ fight starts.

The guy behind him goes on and on about Jon Moxley, the ‘Street Dog’, and Roman learns a lot about him just through the guy’s trash talk, able to pick out the pieces of information behind the bitterness on the surface: his mother was a drug addict and made a living hugging some street corner somewhere, selling drugs or herself; he dropped out of high school and peddled drugs for a while; a recovering drug addict, forced to get clean when he was kicked out of the apartment he shared with his parents.

That twisting in his stomach returns, and trying to keep the anger out of his voice, Roman turns around to look the guy straight in the eyes. “You’ve really got it out for him, don’t ya?”

Guy is giving Roman a look of confusion, as if he wasn’t expecting him to look like he did or sound like he did, or to turn around at all before his lips twisted in a sneer. “Just pointing out the truth. Paul Heyman,” he holds out his hand, which the Samoan begrudgingly takes and gives a firm shake before narrowing his dark eyes at the older man. Heyman is nonplussed. “Only reason he’s here is because the closest thing he’s ever had to a father took pity on him and told the place to keep him outta trouble.”

“Really.” Somehow, he wasn’t convinced by the other’s words. “Sounds like he’s had a rough enough time as it is - ever think that maybe he could use a little support?”

Heyman huffs. “Not likely. He isn’t looking for recognition or fame. Just likes to hurt people.”

Roman doesn’t believe that, either - just narrows his dark eyes at the older gentleman before turning back around, the lights dimming around the audience as the show gets underway.

* * *

The first couple of matches are nothing he particularly cares about, a couple of guys beating each other up with the occasional tool of destruction (chair, bat, fork or pizza cutter) and some trash talk, and the crowd goes crazy with their leering and their cheering and Roman claps quietly in his chair, trying to pretend he wasn’t here for one reason and one reason only.

And suddenly …

The start of music that would probably belong in a horror movie starts to play, the lights dim everywhere, and Roman’s eyes shoot toward a TV screen showing the name _Switchblade Conspiracy_. A distorted image of Sami Callihan flashed on the screen, eyes big and radiating chaos, and then…

“Introducing the main event! This match is scheduled for one fall! First, representing the Switchblade Conspiracy, hailing from Cincinnati, Ohio and weighing 215 pounds - _Jon Mooooooooxley!_ ”

And honestly, Roman isn’t even a little embarrassed that he seems to perk up a little bit, recognizing the face that makes his way toward the ring, donning a sleeveless jacket that looked more like the sleeves were ripped off than actually made that way; his legs are rid of the jeans he’s seen him in, replaced with black trunks with the letters ‘MOX’ written on the side in red. When he makes it to the ring, he grabs the ropes and jumps up onto the apron, turning to face the crowd with a leer that almost doesn’t belong on his still rather boyish face.

“And now, introducing his opponent--”

And maybe Roman doesn’t pay any attention to them - some big, burly guy with dark hair and dark, thick beard, some name he doesn’t remember - but he watches the leer turn into some look reminiscent of frustration cross the young man’s face before he pulls the jacket off and throws it somewhere behind him.

_Ding ding ding!_

And it was like someone had released a wild animal, Mox immediately jumping onto the dude who easily had fifty pounds on him, larger and taller, imposing and threatening but it doesn’t seem to bother him, really. Something akin to worry settles in the Floridan man’s stomach as he watches, waits, with bated breath.

The match is, honestly, longer than he thought it would be; the opponent effortlessly throws Mox into the ropes, onto the canvas, slapping across his chest and punching him in the back, kicking the back of his thigh… and it doesn’t look good for the smaller man, for obvious reasons, especially when the larger man in the ring stomps down on the back of his neck.

The crowd cheers, jeering and yelling obscenities, _“Fuck him up!”_ and _“Take that, Drug Moxley!”_ and Roman honestly feels like he has to yell louder, joining the people standing on all sides of him and yelling something, loud and deep, mostly broken vowels just to be heard over the rest of the people here.

The large man spins around, facing away from Mox and spreads his arms wide, a wild look in his dark eyes that gives him the look of unstable personified.

“Come on, Jon!” Roman hears Sami yell, slapping his palm on the canvas, a crazed look in his eyes that turn to some sort of dangerous scowl aimed toward the other man. “Get up, Jon, you gotta win, buddy! Up! Up!”

And the lanky guy does, after a while, get up and stand on shaking legs; the match has been going for almost twenty minutes already, longer than the other matches with twice as many almost-three-counts, and as he tosses his head up to face his opponent head on, the crowd boos him. Bits of popcorn fly in his direction, and he twitches and turns around, ready to pander back to the audience who seems very not on his side, before the large guy comes back, grabs him by the hair, and _throws his face_ down onto the canvas.

So hard that the younger man bounces back up and onto his back, his fingers twitching on the ends of outstretched arms.

Big Guy covers.

_1! 2! …_

Moxley kicks out, pressing the heel of his hand under his nose and showing the world the blood inked into his skin from what was probably a broken nose.

But, the match takes a totally new turn after blood has been spilled, and Mox is rejuvenated. The crowd continues to boo and hiss, but a deeper voice carries over them, a “Yeah Moxley!” that makes the younger’s body flinch and start turning his body this way and that, swinging blood and sweat all over the place before blue eyes settle back on the task at hand and, with a sneer, throws his body into the larger man and starts pounding and scratching and digging his thumbs into any crevice he can.

Eventually, Big Guy is greeted with a heavy boot to the face. He goes down.

Mox covers.

_1! 2! … 3!_

Roman wasn’t even aware that he’d been been jumping and whooping his hands in the air, but as he’s in midair and blue eyes finally, finally, fall on him and lock onto him like a homing missile, he can’t even hide the happy laughter.

* * *

Most of the audience had cleared out by the time Roman’s decided to move from his chair; as soon as the match had ended almost twenty minutes ago, much to the chagrin of about 85% of his section, Sami Callihan had dragged a bloody Mox around the long way back up the ramp, flashing his friend toward the Samoan despite his rather crimson state of undress and had told him not to move anywhere.

And honestly, he wasn’t sure why he stayed, but he hopped over the barricade and leaned his hip against it.

All in all, it wasn’t a terrible show. He might consider going to one again, if Mox put on as good a show as he did that night.

“Yo, Doc!” the voice of Sami carried throughout the room and Roman looked, brown eyes finding the dark, spiky-haired. “Mox won’t let any’a the trainers look at ‘em. Think ya could lend a hand?”

_Doctor-mode engaged._

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Cool.” Sami stopped halfway down the ramp, waiting for Roman to catch up with him, before saying excitedly, “What did ya think? Mox is pretty good, yeah? He’s better’n me at a lotta stuff, faster too, so they use him for a lotta the singles stuff.”

Nods along with what he was saying, before adding, “I was kind of expecting something a lot more extreme - this is more like hardcore wrestling than what I was thinking.” And while, in any other situation, he might sound scolding or perhaps condescending, Roman’s in complete awe at the athleticism, even Mox’s opponent had been a _little_ talented.

Mox.

He’d seen Mox win, and Mox had _seen_ him see.

How did that make him feel, knowing someone was rooting for him in the crowd? Hopefully, pretty damn good.

They make it to a small hallway and Sami rasps his knuckles on a door immediately to the right. “Jon, ‘s Sami, I brought ya somethin’.”

“I swear to _Christ_ , Callihan, if yer’ gonna shove another trainer in my fucking face, I’mma--”

The door swings open, and honestly, Roman can’t help but grin a little, because Mox looks just a bit taken aback, a little confused, maybe some level of scared that the older man had managed to find out a part of his life he kept private. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

It lacks any venom, which is why Sami pushes against Roman’s arm, taking the initiative when obviously, the doctor was not. “ _I_ invited ‘im since Pop ducked out again. Plus, he’s gonna look at yer’ nose.”

“Don’t need nobody to _look at my nose_. My nose ain’t bro-- what the fuck.” Roman had stepped inside, pressing his hand on the younger’s chest to make him take a few steps back, standing a little under the light, before the Samoan surveyed the damage.

“You don’t know that for sure. The bleeding might have slowed or even stopped, but it’s still heavily bruised and a little swollen at the bridge. It might not be shattered, but it still looks broken. Let me see.”

There’s a brief moment of defiance, a roll of his shoulders as if he’s trying to play the injury off, but when he wrinkles his nose to accompany a sneer, his hand shoots up and attempts to grab at the place where the pain originated. Grabbing his hand immediately, Roman pushes it to the side but keeps it in his strong hold, using his other hand to curl his fingers under Mox’s chin and turn it this way and that to examine his nose.

“It’d be easier if I could take an x-ray, but I’m still sure it’s broken.”

So is the look Mox gives him then, just for a fraction of a second before he looks down at the ground, trying not to look defeated, but his shoulders sinking gives him away. Quickly, Roman amends, “But the good news is, you don’t need surgery. So there’s that.”

Defeat, despite having been victorious that night, is not a good look on Mox, Roman decides. “This is fuckin’ bull, man. This is all I _got_.” As if catching himself from saying too much, blue eyes look into brown, equal parts frustration and that damn defeat again. “How long I gotta be out?”

“I’d say … six weeks, if you stick to treatment.”

“ _Fuuuuck_. But, yer’ sure I don’t need surgery?”

Nodding, Roman said confidently, “Sure. I’ve seen worse cases than yours. If anything, you’ll just be sore for a while, and you gotta ice that thing over the next couple of days, a few times a day. I can prescribe you some over-the-counter stuff to--”

“ _No way_.”

The no-bullshit growl in his voice stills his breath, makes Roman look at Mox head on as if he’d just told him this deep, dark secret. When Mox doesn’t say anything, just glares back, Sami intervenes. “He uh. He don’t like medications.”

“Not even ones for the pain?”

“I’ll fuckin’ deal with it,” Mox bites, before he turns his head slightly to the side to see Roman’s still got possession of his hand, and yanks it away before stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket he’d plucked from a table and slipped slowly over his aching shoulders. “Can I go now?”

Moving out of the way, Roman watches the younger go, Sami thanking him for coming in a hurried and almost hushed tone before following them for a brief time, just to the parking lot, just until he gets to his SUV.

He can hear Sami’s voice a few rows over, trying to quell the growing anger of one Jon Moxley as he rages. _“I can’t go back, Sami! I just got clean, I got debts to pay - knew this was gonna happen, knew I was gonna fuck this up too! Fuckin’ screw up deadbeat jus’ like--”_

Looking up, he watched as the smaller of the two tried to speak, but the rate at which Mox was talking, quick and desperate and angry and broken all at once, there was no way he could have taken a breath long enough to fit in the words of comfort the other deserved in this moment.

He watched as Mox’s fingers knotted in his hair, pulling, his foot kicking out at the door of a ratty old pick-up truck, punching his fist into the already-dented driver’s seat door so hard Roman can practically hear the bruised skin open and blood spatter on the door. He wants to go over, to offer the comfort himself, but he watches then as Sami all but pushes him around to the passenger’s seat and gets him inside.

While the smaller of the two walks back around and slides into the driver’s seat, Roman can see him say something to Mox before pulling out of the parking space, driving up in front of him. He doesn’t stop the truck or even acknowledge him, but… Mox does.

Roman tries not to blatantly gape, but … he’s pretty sure he sees something sliding down the other’s face, clear streaks illuminated by the street lamps over them, lighting up the parking lot.

Getting into his SUV, Roman tucks himself into the seat, heaving a sigh.

Tomorrow, he absolutely _had_ to talk to Regal.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter warning: mentions of rape and past-drug abuse. might make you want to hug Moxley, because thar be feels ahead. sorry, and you're welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> people really like this story. don't get me wrong, thank you SO MUCH, but- they like it more than 'light and heat'. is that a hint? should I focus on this for a while, or are people okay with both? (this isn't me being passive aggressive or anything, I'm really glad people like both! I'm just curious xD)

There was honestly nothing better to Roman Reigns than spending his day off - they were few, but when he got them he took full advantage of it - huddled up on the couch with his daughter, watching some brightly-colored cartoon dance across the television screen; finally, _finally_ , he had gotten the last of the boxes packed away under his bed, creating a more homey feel (despite it being far from what he thought of when he said the word ‘home’) inside the rather-small apartment.

Last night, he’d experienced his first wrestling show, but that hadn’t been the most memorable part of it.

He’d sat in the front row, watched amazing athletes flip and turn and punch and kick and bleed in front of an audience who loved it, but _that_ hadn’t been the most memorable part of it.

Jon Moxley had won his match, gotten a broken nose, and Sami Callihan brought Roman _to_ Mox for him to take care of properly _and Mox let him_ , and **_that_** hadn’t been the most memorable part.

No. The part that had stuck with him from the second he left the little warehouse to this very second, it was the fucking tears spilling from the younger man’s eyes. The part that twisted that dagger into his heart, meanwhile, was that he wasn’t sure Mox would accept his help. His comfort. His _care._

So that morning, when Roman saw Dr. Regal’s small white car pull into the small parking lot on the side of the clinic, he opened the window from his bedroom that overlooked it and poked his head out, asking Regal if he could come up at the first chance he got to talk to him. Perhaps Regal had thought nothing of it, because he enthusiastically agreed, before casting a wave and a polite word of farewell.

Now, he would have to wait.

* * *

And wait. And wait. Because apparently, everyone and their grandmother decided they needed to have an appointment today, which meant there was no rest for the wicked, as the saying goes.

* * *

But eventually, as Roman set JoJo in her bed to take a nap, he heard a knock on the door; he hadn’t had time to really clean up after lunch, but he figured the older man wouldn’t mind so much, considering it was just a few dishes and cups. Walking over in his jeans and pulling on a sweatshirt, he opens the door and greets the other with a smile.

“Dr. Regal! Welcome. I just put Joelle down for a nap, so we can have a few moments of adult-talk.” Moving aside from the door and swinging his arm open in welcome, he watches as the older man walks in with as much poise and care as his namesake, some royal something-or-other, and Roman moves to shut the door before seeing a figure across the road, talking to some bigger guy in a hooded sweatshirt.

He’s not even pretending to _not_ be worried about Mox.

As he closes the door, he pretends even harder that he didn’t see Mox leave with the bigger guy.

“So, Roman. You said you wanted to talk. About the clinic, I presume?”

“Uh, not exactly,” not at _all_ , actually. “I was looking through the file cabinet downstairs, and I noticed that you didn’t have any of M…” _It’s best he doesn’t know we’re already acquainted, considering how little he thought of him before_ , Roman thinks, before looking the older head-on. “-of that kid’s files anywhere?”

“Kid? Which kid? I have every child and adult’s information that’s come into my clinic.”

_No, that’s a lie._

“The, uh. The kid, from when I first got here? I think you called him Jonathan?”

“Ah. Him. Has he been causing you any trouble lately?”

It was moreover the opposite, if Roman had to be honest. Probably. “No, no. I just. I asked my head nurse why he doesn’t have a file, and she said I should discuss it with you.”

“Ah.” Is all he says, followed by, “You’re sure now?”

It couldn’t have been that bad, or at least Roman hoped not, but he nodded anyway. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

* * *

“Jonathan Moxley is, on paper, my son. His mother was an old patient of mine, a recovering drug addict, and we met and fell in love. After a while, just like anybody else on this side of town, she found herself in the drug-monster’s throat, high on everything but life, drunk, and in order to pay for it all she sold her body for sex. One of her customers raped her, and nine months later, Jonathan was born.

“And she _tried_ to love him - she stopped with the drugs and got clean long enough for him to nurse from her; unfortunately, she didn’t have money coming in, so she started selling again, both drugs and herself, but she always came home and cared for him. But she was overcome with grief, fell into a depression, and I could see that somehow, Jonathan was _killing_ her.

“One night, when he was about five, she just up and left, taking all of her money and whatever she could shove into her little car with her. Except for him.

“Jonathan grew up without a mother and, as much as I tried to be there, managed to somehow raise himself better that way. He became self-sufficient, taught himself how to cook when he was tall enough to reach the counters. He went to school until he was a sophomore in high school, but then dropped out. Apparently, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, and he found himself in some of his own messes: drug dealers pulling him into their worlds, making him deal and using himself… but he met a boy on the streets who he got on with well enough, and he helped him get clean, or so I heard.

“Apparently, old habits die hard, because the amount of cars I see him climb into is almost impressive.” Regal’s eyes are so much colder, whereas Roman’s body is completely thrumming with something hot, boiling in his stomach. “Once he turned eighteen, I told him that he wasn’t welcome in my home anymore. He didn’t seem to mind, all things considered, but I have only seen glimpses of him between then and now.”

Roman feels his voice catch in his throat. “Oh my god… how long’s he been out there?” _Since then_ are the unspoken last part of that question.

“5, 6 years? I really don’t know. I really don’t care, to be brutally honest with you. We washed our hands of each other a long time ago, I’m afraid. The first time I’d seen him in years was when you got here, truth be told.”

_That’s disgusting._ Roman thinks, trying to keep his hands relaxed as possible, trying as hard as he can not to let them twist into fists at his sides. _Who just abandons their family like that? Blood or not. Problems with drugs or not. If something like that were to have happened in my family, we’d have all rallied around each other, one big fucking clusterfuck of love and support._

“I warned you it might be a little much,” Regal tries, as if it was excuse enough for all that had been said. “But to answer your initial question: Jonathan doesn’t have medical records here because he refuses to let anyone look at him. When I tried, he nearly broke my jaw. He’s too wild and angry - in all honestly, the day he comes to the clinic and lets someone willingly take care of him is the day that pigs fly, as the saying goes.”

_Better start watchin’ the skies, then._ Because Mox had let Roman look at him twice now, had been in _there_ once but had let the man tend to him twice. And judging by his upbringing and everything between that and now, he absolutely could understand why the younger might have reacted the way he had toward Regal, and the bite to his hand, but after that he had allowed him to check him over.

What did that mean?

Still, he had to respond to Regal, because it had been a few beats of quiet and the older man was watching him. Clearing his throat, he nods his head, and he makes to offer some off-handed comment about the boy before he sees the cool detachment, the almost _hatred_ in the older’s gaze as they talked about Mox, and that flame is back to roaring. It’s easy to keep his aggression at bay, but it’s not so much to keep the spite out of his voice.

“If my family abandoned me like that, I’m pretty sure I’d react like that, too.”

That seems to strike Regal as an odd answer, certainly not what he was expecting as he leans backwards a little, eyes blown wide, lips parted in a silent question before his entire body rises. “I’ve given you enough of a headache, I’m sure. Duty calls.”

_Where was your dedication to duty when it was Jon?_

Still, Roman watches him leave, and almost slams the door at the man’s back before remembering that JoJo was napping. Instead, he walks over to the couch, plops back down, and lands a few tight punches to the back of the sofa; he was pretty sure that he’d be met with the same fate Regal had years ago, if he tried to show the other the care he deserved, probably needed more than wanted. And it wasn’t like Roman couldn’t take a punch, because damn it, he had played football for years in school before choosing to help instead of hurt people, but…

A few minutes pass, giving Roman ample time to punch his anger and frustration into his sofa, before he hears another knock on the door. Looking at it in confusion, because he didn’t know _that_ many people around here that knew where he lived, he gets up and stretches the fingers of his tightly-clenched hand and flexes them before opening the door.

Perhaps a little _too_ surprised to see the object of the doctors’ conversation a little while ago.

“What the fuck was he doing here, and what did he tell you?”

The confusion melts to concern melts to amusement as Roman crosses his arms over his chest, lips tilted up in a lopsided grin and dark eyes glittering with humor. “I had to ask him something. Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ would.” And he pushes past Roman, pacing around before he glares at the Samoan’s head… but when the door closes and he turns to look at the other, Mox’s shoulders sag a little, eyebrows shooting up into his hair, looking entirely too soft for the sound of his voice and the dangerous, hunter’s arch to his back. “’cause when he looked at me jus’ now, there was no disgust in it. What the fuck did you say?”

“Alright, well first of all, language; my toddler’s asleep down the hall and if you wake her up because you’re bein’ loud and swearing, we’re gonna have an issue.” The look in his eyes is just as sharp as Mox’s, and the younger doesn’t let up, only scoffs and crosses his arms like _he’s_ the parent waiting on his child to explain why he had his hand in the cookie jar. Scrunching up his lips, Roman encourages Mox to sit on the sofa as he does, patting the space beside him.

He does eventually, slowly, pressing himself as far away from touching Roman as possible, yet somehow giving off the impression that he had every right to sit there.

It was in that moment that Roman noticed how little he tried to create contact between people… between _them_ , specifically. A dull ache settles in his bones.

“I’m not about to lie and say I haven’t been curious about you since I saw you the first time,” he starts, slowly, easing the tense air with his calm and smooth voice. Mox rolls his shoulders, the discomfort growing despite Roman’s best attempts. “And, I got more curious when I saw that Regal didn’t have any record of you downstairs. So, I a--”

“So now you know?” he looked like he could both launch at Roman and at the door, his spine straight and eyes looking him dead-on and _so, so blue_. “You know about my deadbeat _slut_ of a mother and my deadbeat _bastard_ of a father, who isn’t _actually_ anything close to a father because he pretty much left me to raise myself. Did he tell you that he spent _countless days_ locked up in his pretty little fuckin’ clinic downstairs so he wouldn’t have to come home to me? Huh? What about him tellin’ me what a piece’a shit I was for drivin’ my mother away?”

It’s impressive how quiet Mox’s voice has gotten, yet higher in pitch, the more he talks, like he’s talking at the end of a breath just to keep himself quiet. Suddenly, Mox scoots toward him, their knees knocking together, and he leans real close to Roman, lip pulled back in a sneer and flashing white teeth at him that look more like they wanted to rip into his flesh.

“Did he tell ya how he pretty much left me for fuckin’ dead in some shitty, moldy apartment to work in that stupid _fucking clinic_ makin’ money, yet spent his money on cigars and ate out to the point where I had to whore myself around when I was fourteen? Huh? Did he tell ya’ I had to quit school ‘cause his fuckin’ desertin’ me turned me desperate and got me kicked out for havin’ drugs and--”

Roman puts a hand on Mox’s jean-clad knee, pressing his thumb into it. “Hey…”

“He obviously didn’t tell you _everything_ ,” he hisses next, his voice breaking at the last word, looking to be swallowed up by something as he tries to get a handle on himself and his body is trembling and all Roman wants to do is wrap his arms around the lither man’s body. “But ‘m fuckin’ _clean_ now, thanks to Sami, an’ he showed me that warehouse for the wrestling and it saved my fuckin’ _life_ man.”

Mox’s hand drops to Roman’s on his knee, and he looks down at it, the heel of his hand digging into the older’s fingers, but it didn’t feel as though he was pushing them away or off… it, honestly, felt like he was digging the digits _in_. Trying to imprint the feeling of his thicker fingers into his leg, trying to find some ground, somewhere to dig his feet in and stabilize himself.

Bowing his head, the smaller shakes his head, shaggy hair falling over his face.

“Did he ever hurt you?”

Shoulders tense slightly, heel of his hand scooting up his own leg, long fingers laying in the spaces between Roman’s thicker ones, curling his hand up so that it looks like he’s clutching onto his hand without holding it outright. “No. I could’a taken ‘im though. He ain’t that tough.”

“Of course.” The smile’s in his voice, not on his face, and it makes Mox look up, blue into brown, and Roman concludes that he doesn’t like how ruined he looks. His eyes are shining with tears that are _right there_ , but he’s forcing them back, and Roman looks down at their hands before he adjusts his own, pulling the other’s hand into it and holding it there, tight, warm palm around trembling, cold fingers. “You know…”

Pursing his lips, Mox waits, for what he thinks is probably some inevitable words of hatred and disgust, everything he’s ever known, and it makes some inside part of Roman’s brain growl, feeling protective.

“You know, you don’t have to hold that in. I’m a good listener. And, that door?” he points to the door with his finger, Mox following it before looking back, eyes narrowing slightly and casting this veil of shimmer over his baby-blues. “That door is always, _always_ , open to you. Don’t care what Regal has to say, about you or anything else.”

And he’s not sure what he’s expecting - that is to say, he’s expecting something totally different, an angry shove or a punch or a dismissive storming-out by the other - but Mox launching into his body is absolutely the _last_ thing, forehead pressed onto his shoulder, his fingers fidgeting inside the larger’s hand and his other hand twisting into his own hair, tugging on the light strands. He’s mindfully avoiding putting any pressure on his nose, still colored with a bruise.

And at first, Roman isn’t sure what he wants his body to do. His other hand wraps around the other’s narrow waist, fingers digging in, splayed across the expanse of his back.

It’s a new luxury, something he hadn’t realized he’d even wanted, but he takes it for what it is, because he’s almost positive that when things turn back to normal again, he’s gonna want to remember that he got to experience this.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter warning: attempted non-con/rape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> people were under the impression in the comments that I was asking them to pick one story or the other. Nononono. Don't worry - both this and 'light and heat' aren't going anywhere. 
> 
> this one's a kicker. tread lightly.

The next few days are nothing but rain and patients stacked upon patients; at face value, more patients means more money, but he has to resort to making house-calls in the mornings when he can’t seem to fit anymore patients in the afternoon, which is neither here nor there because a great deal of the patients are elderly, so he allows himself to bring JoJo along, who is usually quiet and shy in the mornings anyway.

Business flows in regularly, almost becoming too much on the days where Roman works, and he finds that thought rather flattering; he remembers that, on the few days a month where Regal takes over, he doesn’t get as many patients coming in, yet the next day, people are in abundance, calling over the phone or walking in.

And it’s just as well - he’s gotten used to the streets by now. On nights when he works later, he orders pizza for everyone working and he gets to see Bryan again, who he befriends over the course of his time in Cincinnati. Every now and again, he sees younger guys coming in, college-age, with cuts and bruises on their faces and he likens them to the kinds of wounds sustained by Mox after his matches.

And _Mox._

Admittedly, Roman’s grown rather fond of him, despite the callous attitude and harsh, biting words that escaped his lips on a daily basis. They didn’t see each other much after that last time a few days ago, but when they _did_ there was a lightness, this… it wasn’t the odd fascination that had once been there. There was definitely a fondness that the Floridan man wasn’t pretending not to have anymore.

The light-haired man often hovered around the apartment, as if he was waiting for Roman to show up so he could pretend they were crossing paths on accident, but when Roman would eventually go to the door to greet him, he would already be gone.

Aloof, yet also kind of not, and it made Roman grin a little, to himself.

* * *

One could imagine his surprise when, after his lunch break and after Bayley disappeared into the apartment with JoJo one afternoon, Mox was sitting inside the waiting room; he wasn’t looking anywhere in particular, but as soon as Roman had entered the clinic and had paused, his head jerked up, giving the Samoan a healthy view of the dark bruise on the left side of his cheek and the dried blood crusted under his nostrils.

Finn walks in from one of the patient rooms, handing over a file of the first patient, before he looks around the larger man’s arm to peek at Roman. “He was here when I got here, but wouldn’ let me put him int’a a room. Said he’d wait for you.”

“Fantastic,” it was said more through a sigh, before he looks inside the folder. “What’s going on with Mr. Jacobs?”

“He t’inks he’s broken his fingers on his right hand.”

“Even more so,” he says this with a bit more exhausted conviction, before he closes the folder and hands it over to Finn. “Do me a favor and prep Mr. Jacobs for an x-ray, yeah? I’ll see what’s goin’ on.”

Finn nods his head and disappears into the hall, and Roman can’t keep the little bubble of a laugh quiet as he turns around, only to be greeted by a hard body; Mox is wearing a worn, threadbare tee shirt that doesn’t so much fit nicely over his torso as it does make him seem smaller, his jeans held up by a thick, black belt. His hair is clean, light brown and curly and messily hanging in his face. Quirking a dark eyebrow, Dr. Reigns finds his eyes trained on the bruising on his face and frowns.

“Gonna let me take a look at that?”

Shrugging with one shoulder, Mox looks about, and without even knowing why Roman says calmly, “It’s just me and Finn here right now. Regal doesn’t come in until la-- _mf_.”

Brown eyes blow wide, staring down at the pale face that’s suddenly in his, cracked lips pushed against his own in not so much a kiss as it is a simple press, the tip of a warm, moist tongue poking at Roman’s bottom lip before he pulls back. Mox’s eyes are unabashed, looking up into his own, tongue slipping out to swipe across his bottom lip before he turns away, walking outside and disappearing down the street.

* * *

After his last patient leaves that day, he’s relieved to admit that they’d made more money in the past few weeks, despite how exhausted he’d become. Maybe he’d have enough to hire more help, maybe bring Bayley and Finn in full-time, because _Lord knows_ they deserved it, and he liked working with them.

“Alright, Finn, go on home. I can take care of things here for a while,” Roman said, voice low and authoritative, but there’s no harshness in his tone, never was. When he sees Finn curiously look up at him, he continues, “We’ve got no one else coming in, and I’ve got to look over some paperwork. I’ll file it all away when I’m done. You go on back home, okay?”

“If you’re sure, Dr. Reigns,” Finn says slowly.

“I’m plenty sure. It’s not so hard. Go on home.”

Finn complies, walking over to pluck his coat off of the coat rack, before waving a hand over his shoulder. “T’ank you.” It looked like there was something else he’d wanted to say, but instead, he shook his head and grinned nice and big. “Sami will appreciate this - it’s been a long time since I’ve made it home before dinner.”

Sami Zayn. Finn’s boyfriend of about eight months, his best friend for eight years. Roman liked to hear about the Irishman’s life when he was willing to talk about it, and he decided even through association alone that Sami's someone he’d like and enjoy having around. Smiling, the Samoan gets up and claps a hand on his nurse’s shoulder.

“I’m sure he will. Now, out.”

Nodding, Finn chuckles, headed out the door with one more wave before walking around the building to the parking lot.

* * *

As Roman pushed in the last of his paperwork into the filing cabinet, he breathed a sigh of relief; it probably wasn’t the best habit to have, but he had been putting off going through the reports he’d been filling out, the paperwork and even the bills that he’d been saving for one of those tired nights. Holding onto the many envelopes and packets he should get around to mailing the next morning, he starts flicking off the lights, hanging up his white coat as he made his leave.

It was long-past dark, he realized a little guiltily. Long-past when he usually was finished, and he knew he’d have to make it up to Bayley somehow, considering she was probably asleep up in the apartment, it was so late. It could have been almost 10pm.

Locking up was short and loud, the only sound he could hear in the silent nighttime. The streets were barren, save for the howls of angry cats and crows singing his praises as he made his way around the building and to the stairs. In the distance, he heard a car door, and even though he knew what it was from and whose footsteps were making their way into the alleyway across the road, he still had to turn around.

And, he was glad he did.

A big guy - round, thick arms and a square face and a thick, curly beard - had his hands all over Mox, pushing him into the wall, the sounds of his struggling against the hold evident in the empty, wet alleyway, the hushed moans of _Stop_ and _Don’t touch me, ass wipe_ and _Fuck_ like screams in the Samoan’s ears. Narrowing his eyes, he rests his paperwork on the stairs before he heard the door open, a bleary-eyed Bayley rubbing at her face.

“Mr--”

“Bayley, take these and put ‘em on the counter. I’ll be _right_ back to bring you home. Get inside and lock the door.”

He didn’t move until she did as he said, worriedly looking at him the whole way, but when she did as he asked and the door was shut behind her, he moved like lightning, as if his shoes had Mox-seeking missiles in them.

Bypassing the car completely and readying his fists, he was nearly floored by the image of a half-naked Mox now bent over a knocked-over garbage can, the big guy’s hand wrapped around his junk, about to lower himself against him… and Roman roared angrily, the sound magnified by the tight space, and the guy froze.

“Who the _fuck_ are y-- _OOF!_ ” he was interrupted by hands on his back tearing him away from Mox, whose hands were already making fast work of pulling up his pants. After tossing the guy into the wall and not caring that the curses flowing out of his mouth were in his direction, he slipped off his collared shirt, slipping it around the smaller’s shoulders.

“Are you okay?”

Mox didn’t answer, just pressed his hand under his nose, which had begun to bleed over his pale hand, crimson. Wrong. _Wrong wrong wrong._

Fury boiled inside his stomach, and Roman stood up, mouth twisted with something dark and violent and evident that he’d been keeping a _lot_ of negativity behind his teeth for the better part of the last year: opportunities robbed from him, people using him, frustration egging through his bones and this? Somebody trying to take _advantage_ of Jon Moxley, this just happened to be the icing on the very cruel cake. One hand grabbed the guy’s hair at the same time as the guy tried to get up from his crumpled ball on the ground, and Roman yanked his hair back, baring white teeth, eyes dark and blown and face stony.

“If I _ever_ see you come near him again, I will make _damn_ sure your life is _hell_. Am I clear?”

“You can’t--”

“Am. I. _Clear_?”

“Fuck, yes!”

Releasing him as rough as he had probably wasn’t necessary, but he was livid, practically vibrating, and he had to taper it down quick if he wanted to turn around and not fix the younger with the look he probably had on his face.

Scrunching up his nose for good measure, he shakes his head before turning around, already seeing Mox on his feet with his dress shirt in his hands, wringing it, fixing him with a look that looked stuck between questioning and angry, confused and scared, before his face turned stony, unresponsive. It looked too _business is business_ and Roman wasn’t going to stand for it this time.

As Mox tried to walk by, pressing the shirt into his stomach without saying a word, the dark-haired reached a hand out and caught the other’s arm. “No.”

“What?” the younger snapped, his head whipping around, tugging at his arm. “Let go, _doctor_.”

“ _No_. Let’s go.”

“I ain’t--”

“ _Shut up_.” His voice was low, back to it’s _no bullshit_ rumble, and it made the tugging still, the other’s fingers close tighter around the fabric in his hand. Turning to look the light-haired in the face, deep brown into blown blue, Roman said, “You’ve been skippin’ around any attempt I’ve made so far to help you, but not this time.” The hitch in Mox’s breath was devoid of the fear he’d been giving off earlier. It was more like surprise; blue eyes wide and lips parted and shoulders stiff. Not uncomfortable, but definitely not familiar with this. “You don’t want me to look at you as a doctor? Fine, whatever, I can’t make you. But you’re _damn_ sure gonna let me look at you as a man concerned for your safety.”

There was this flash of defiance in Mox’s eyes then, like he was almost going to fight back, before he turned his head away. “Fuckin’ fine.” The way Roman slackened his grip and reached a hand around him to bring him out of the alleyway, it made him feel a certain way, the older could tell, but there wasn’t any sure way to be able to tell when he was trying not to look at his face. When they breached the stairs, his hand was merely hovering over the other’s back; the street light above him gave him a good view of the bruises and scars that patchwork his skin, some bruises healing and others fresh, and it made his lip snarl a little with something that felt entirely possessive.

He didn’t pretend not to feel the other’s body freeze up against his hand as he rested it on his waist, twisting the door knob and angling for him to go inside.

He also didn’t pretend not to feel the brown eyes inside shift between them as Mox entered and stood off to the side.

“Bayley, I’m going to get him situated, then I’ll drive you home, alright?”

“O-okay.”

He pretends not to notice how willingly Mox lets him lead him toward his bedroom, body hunched and fingers still clasped around his shirt.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got some bad-ish news, y'all. (Yes, /I/ am fine. No, I'm not on hiatus. No, I'm not dropping this wonderful dumpster-fire, slightly-OOC rarepair.) I've caught up to what I've written thus far, which means updates will be a lot slower for this /particular/ story from here on out. A little frustrating, but whatever. (It doesn't help that the muse for this comes and goes, either. I know people really like this, this ship, so I feel a little bad. :c)
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the last update for a little while. Until the next chapter's done at least.

Sunlight dances in broken lines over the warm, dark gray comforter of Roman’s bed, up and up until it reaches his naked torso, tan skin striped in bright morning sun, all the way up until it shined in his eyes. It was a bit of a rude awakening, but not any ruder than the impending shriek of his alarm, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he pushed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes to wipe away the sleep.

When he blinks awake and turns to the side, he’s a little surprised to see that the bed isn’t empty, the thick comforter pulled up to hide every bit of light skin but not shaggy, sleep-mussed hair. Underneath, Roman could feel the smaller body curled up slightly, as far away from his body as one could get without falling off the bed, legs pulled up to a lithe body.

Leaning over, he lets his eyes roam over the lump, reaching to brush the light-brown tresses from the pale face, unable to look away from the look of innocence that sleep had given the smaller man. For someone who was usually so loud, so hard, so angry, this was something that Roman enjoyed seeing. It looked like he was enjoying his sleep, too, if the relaxed look on his face was any indication.

Slipping out of bed, he made sure not to let the bed shake too much and stood up straight, his sweatpants a little twisted around his hips; after what had nearly been Mox being sexually assaulted, he wasn’t sure what kind of control he would have had over his anger once he got the younger into the room, but he hadn’t dared to touch him, nor did he dare to speak because he knew, he _knew_  that dangerous growl in his voice wouldn’t just disappear. Not until he got a handle on the angry hound howling inside his head.

So, when he had gotten Mox inside the room, he held his hand out as if to say _stay_  and stalked out, quietly driving Bayley home, letting her talk quietly about what she and JoJo had done for the last few hours. (“She colored you a picture to hang up in the clinic, a cartoon doctor, and she even colored in longer hair to make him look like you!”) He put on his best smile, tried to make it look as least forceful as possible, before he drove back.

When he got back inside his apartment, he saw that the brunet had stayed put, curled himself in the comforter on his bed after slipping off his jeans, and apparently went to sleep.

It didn’t take him more than a few seconds to breathe away the anger, pacing around the room and shaking out his hands as if he was ready for a fight… before he walked to his dresser and pulled out a clean pair of gray sweatpants. The same ones he was wearing now, bunched up from sleep. He’d slept off the rest of his roiling anger, woke up exhausted, but he wasn’t angry anymore.

Walking around to Mox’s side of the bed, he leaned over to pick up his jeans, folding them nicely and setting them against the wall. He tried looking around for the shirt he’d worn yesterday, the button-down he’d thrown at the younger, but shrugged when he didn’t see it before he heard a shift on the bed.

Blue eyes were looking at him from over the edge of the comforter, and he looked on with a slight grin, making sure to stand in front of him so that the sun wasn’t shining in his face. Blue eyes watched, looked him up and down as if he couldn’t remember who he was, then kicked the comforter off of his body.

His torso donned Roman’s work shirt. Something warm flitted through his blood then, making his fingers itch.

And this time, after the light-haired stretched his arms out to the sides and arched his back to work out the knots and looked right back at him with tired, bleary eyes, Roman ducked into his space and placed his hands on either sides of his face, pulling him into a kiss that the other melted into, both still sleep-warm.

It was Roman that pulled back, looking back at Mox’s face that seemed a bit more aware of his surroundings now, and chuckled when the other pushed himself out of bed with the most shameless roll of his body, flashing his flat stomach with abs the Samoan hadn’t noticed just peeked out under his pale skin.

“What was that for?” the smirk on the smaller’s face is all shit-eating confidence, like he knows exactly why the other had kissed him, radiating amusement as well as something much dirtier.

“Had to pay ya back,” Roman says, lips pulled into a grin. He licks his lips similarly to how Mox has yesterday, but perhaps a little less obscenely. “You gave me a kiss yesterday, figured I’d give it back.”

After a moment, Mox dragged a hand through his sleep-mussed curls, wincing slightly and ignoring Roman’s questioning gaze before he turned his face away, looking around the room. “Ya gotta nice place. ‘s bigger than mine.”

Dark eyebrows furrowed slightly. “You mean that alleyway.”

Shrugging a shoulder, the light-haired doesn’t answer. Roman fills the quiet instead. “If I knew you were homeless, I’d have--”

“What? You’d’ve what, huh?” narrowed blue eyes gazed back at the Samoan, who seems unimpressed but not otherwise affected. “’m not the kinda guy you want hangin’ around kids, man. Got so much shit, baggage you don’t wanna have anything to do with-”

Crossing his arms, the older sighed through his nose. “I’m not lookin’ to start a fight with you - I just think you deserve a lot more than you’ve gotten. Just wanna help.”

That seems to strike the other in a strange way, his body flinching as if he’d been slapped, but he’s back to classic Mox deflection, moving back onto the bed only to climb to the other side, maintaining distance. “Don’t want anybody’s help, man. Never needed it before.”

What flies out of Roman’s mouth, is… is probably the stupidest fucking thing he’s sure he’s ever said. But he says it anyway.

“Why?”

Several things work in the space between them - first, Mox seems furious, as if he’s aware how stupid the question is and it digs at his skin like the tip of a blade. But, fury becomes confusion, because he’d explained to Roman last night how he’d had to take care of himself, how it had been himself versus the world for practically his whole life. He drags his hands through his hair, floundering for words, and he honestly looks like he’s about to run up and throttle the older man.

But confusion melts to something else, something like defeat but he doesn’t quite feel defeated. Pushing his tongue to the inside of his bottom lip to jut it out, shaking his head, he lets his hair flop back into place on his forehead and lets his hands drop back to his sides.

“Guess I figured if the _only_  people who were s’posed to give a shit didn’t, why should I believe anybody else would? And uh.” He’s squirming a little, his hands looking for something to do, caught between putting them back through his hair and balling them up at his waist. He opts for pounding them together, bringing attention to something else, to ease the rest of the words out. “No one ever proved me wrong.”

Roman’s body relaxed, expression softened, brown eyes warming.

He’s not sure if the words _‘til you_ are said by Mox or a voice in his head who sounds similar, but Roman still finds himself smiling on the inside anyway.

* * *

It doesn’t take much coaxing to get Mox into the bathroom to shower, Roman having to sacrifice a pair of basketball shorts, boxers, and a tee shirt. During that time, he busies himself with picking up the other’s jeans and throwing them into the washer, as well as his work clothes. Once he got a load going, he went into the kitchen to start on breakfast.

It didn’t surprise him that JoJo came out at the smell of food, dragging her stuffed dog with her, wisps of light-brown hair twisting every which way from sleep. Turning around at the sound of soft, pattering feet, he smiles at her before bending to rub some her hair somewhat into place. “Morning, baby girl.”

Words don’t exactly leave her lips more than incoherent grumbles, and Roman can’t stop the laughter from bubbling out of him at the sound before he moves the scrambled eggs he’d been nursing into a bowl before wiping out the pan and spraying it again with non-stick spray.

Breakfast is a quiet, rushed affair; Mox didn’t take the longest of showers, but he sure used the great majority of the hot water, as the pink flush to his skin was a sure indicator of. So, after precariously grabbing a new short-sleeved collared shirt from his closet and digging out a pair of neat, dark wash jeans, he made quick work of showering, only mildly irked by the sudden rush of cool water on his warm skin before he’s done.

Dressing is a mechanic impulse, and he walks out of the bathroom with his hair down, loose and wavy and wet against his chest and back. He mutters a quiet “Go get dressed, baby girl” to Joelle, who finishes her scrambled eggs at the same time before scooting off the chair and stampeding into her bedroom.

There’s a brief beat of awkward silence once the door closes behind him, but Roman makes quick work of his hair, threading his fingers through the dark tresses and plucking a few loose strands from his fingers into the trash bin by the wall. When he looks back up, Mox’s eyes are, unabashedly, staring at his right arm.

At his sleeve tattoo, with a bunch of Samoan tribal designs moving from his wrist underneath the sleeve of his shirt, to his right pectoral. It extends to the back of his right shoulder as well.

“Didn’ notice before,” he says by way of explanation, “but that thing’s badass.”

“Thanks,” Roman grins, feeling a little smug as he reaches up and back to tie his long hair into a neat bun. Mox watches that too, as if the hair had disappeared instead of been tied back. Blinking owlishly, blue eyes look back into brown and he seems to want to say something, but doesn’t. So, Roman does. “Dunno if you wanted to stick around, but I’m leavin’ in a few minutes for work. I should be back up at around noon, then JoJo will be back up here with my nurse until closing time. You’re welcome to stay, but--”

“Nah, can’t,” Mox says quickly, ignoring the way the Samoan’s nostrils flare in response to being interrupted, “Got some work’a my own to do. Since, y’know. Can’t wrestle.”

“I really think tha--”

“I’m all ready, daddy!”

The two men follow the sound of the voice, only to see Joelle in a mismatching outfit of bright yellow pants and an orange shirt with a blue elephant on it. Roman couldn’t even pretend that there was yellow anywhere on it to look somewhat matching, but when he hears a snort from beside him, he figures he has to break the news to her.

Only for JoJo to run up toward the men, papers in her hands, and stopping in front of Mox.

“I did these for you,” she says softly, perhaps shyly, and any words Roman had been getting ready to say die in his throat. He can see the puppy picture on top, but below it are a few more pictures, and he looks beside him to watch Mox’s face trying so, so hard to uncaring. It makes the older think that maybe, while he thought he shouldn’t be around children, he might not actually mind them.

A sly smirk appears on Roman’s lips, turning his whole mouth diagonal.

Mox looks to him, sees the look on his face, and conveys something very threatening in his eyes before he reaches down slightly to take the drawings in slow-moving fingers, curling them around the back as he looks right back down at them, expression gradually getting softer. _There’s no way he doesn’t like kids._  

JoJo doesn’t wait for his mutter of _Thanks_  before she runs around him, jumping up and down near the door. Roman giggles, a breathy sound, before he spins around to face his daughter.

“She likes you, ya know.”

“She doesn’t even know me.” Mox’s voice is a little more disbelieving for somebody who wasn’t supposed to care, and he carefully sifts through the pictures as if they will disintegrate if he doesn’t. “She’s seen me for all’a ten minutes since you moved here.”

Roman shrugs one shoulder, not quite having shaken that grin off of his face. “Who knows with kids. But if she likes havin’ you around, you can’t be so bad, right?”

As Roman leaves, he wonders if he should have stayed to see Mox’s reaction. But, right before he makes his way inside the clinic, he hears the door open and slam shut, and he’s pretty sure that’s the closest thing to what he expected as one might get without damage to the apartment.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so, long time no see. I was going to try and focus on my novel but, in lieu of recent events, I couldn't really handle any angst right now. (I'm not sure if I like the first half of this, but the second half is fine I guess. Hope you'll enjoy it anyway.)

He’s not sure why, but Roman’s noticed that every time he makes even a little progress with Mox, the guy practically disappears for days. And yeah, it’s not like he expected him to take him up on his offer - _“That door is always open to you.”_  - but was it totally ridiculous for him to at least _hope_  that maybe, he might have?

No, he didn’t have a lot of space, but the couch wasn’t _that_ uncomfortable. And lately, business has been good, so he wouldn’t be above buying an air mattress or a futon.

But there’s this voice in his head, one that sounds a lot like Hunter, actually: _this is only temporary _.__ And it sometimes throws him massively off-guard, because yeah, New York has been his goal since he first decided to become a doctor, but he hadn’t expected to become so attached to this place. Bayley’s smile in the mornings, Finn’s stories in the evenings.

(Jon Moxley.)

He managed to score tickets to another wrestling show, courtesy of Sami Callihan, who seemed to have taken a different kind of liking to Roman than his partner had - he didn’t mind talking to Roman after the show, asking him how he liked it. And always, (even if Mox wasn’t in the line-up right now for anything physical) he would tell him he enjoyed it, that he enjoyed the promo Callihan had cut on some guy.

This wrestling thing was such a big deal for him. And it was beginning to grow on Roman, this kind of thing, these shows. He grew up watching wrestling, enjoying it, being entertained by it - he’d had dreams of becoming a wrestler for a while, but he went through with football until he decided on medical school and had given it up with no real hard feelings on his own part.

Seeing this though, he kind of missed it - maybe he’d be able to convince himself to, at least, get a gym membership somewhere. To be active again, to get out of his apartment and out of the clinic.

Roman sits in about the same position he was in before, except on the opposite side, where he can directly see the corner where Sami is standing. He’s jumping up and down, head twitching slightly, rolling his fists around as if turning a crank, before his opponent for the night played.

The guy is about Sami’s build: not the tallest guy Roman had seen that night, but he’d learned through personal experience that size didn’t always matter.

Guy’s entrance is some punk rock song, lyrics vague enough to get lost in the room, but the crowd is going nuts for him. Cheers sound as he comes down to the ring, wearing a white and blue singlet - his hair is long, in his face, obscuring a look in his eyes that conveys every bit of smug confidence that Sami does an endless abundance of energy, movements erratic and random.

Calling out words of encouragement, Roman offers the younger a grin. Sami stalks over, sucking air in through his teeth, a habit the Samoan isn’t so sure is for show. Before he stalks back toward the ring to hop into the middle of it, Roman just barely hears:

“Don’t get mad at ‘im. ‘s tryin’ to get off the streets, doc.”

Roman has about five seconds to try to figure out what that means before the _Switchblade’s_  entrance music hits and…

Out runs Jon Moxley, standing in a black long-sleeve shirt and his signature trunks.

The crowd jeers, but there are some cheers dotted in it too, and for some reason Roman kind of forgets that he should be mad over this.

 _Six weeks_  meant _six weeks._

But, as long as he isn’t punched in the nose…

Mox’s shoulders are arched in a familiar predatory hunch, stalking the outside of the ring and looking directly into an audience member’s face and screaming something unintelligible before he spins away, arms outspread, roaring into the air before he locks eyes with Roman.

Not an ounce of shame on his face.

No, it’s something else entirely, hidden by a dirty grin, teeth biting in his direction like fangs before he spins and hops up onto the apron.

But when the ring announcer only announces Sami Callihan’s name, Roman releases a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, sliding a large paw over the top of his head, loosening the tail he’d put his hair into before he leans forward on his knees, grinning.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, the _Switchblade Conspiracy_  wins.

Also unsurprisingly, it was because of Mox providing a distraction so his boy could get the pin.

But that was neither here nor there.

* * *

Roman didn’t have to be told to wait for them, because Mox had pretty much not bothered to change back into any other clothes and, as Sami made his way back through the curtain, he swaggered his way over to the Samoan, eyes lit up with something trapped behind something dirty.

Before he could say anything, the older said first, “Good job,” with a grin on his face, light and warm.

“Yeah, we’re fuckin’ awesome,” he says, light hair falling in his eyes, and he rubs a hand through it before pushing it back in his face. He puts his hands on his hips, halfway between impatient and unsure, and if Roman didn’t know any better… he’d think Mox was shy. Or, was the closest to shy someone with an ego as big as his talent could be. Grin slides to an easy smile, watching the crew of the place come out and start putting chairs away and cleaning up the small arena.

“Got a ride back?”

Mox looks at Roman, echoing the smile on his face with a leer. “Why, want me to go with _you_?”

“Can’t you just answer the question? Besides. I wanna take a look at your nose.” _Good cover, Rome, goooooooood cover._

As if having forgotten about it entirely, Mox reaches up and gingerly - it’s a wonder the word’s even in his vocabulary - presses his fingers against the round tip of his nose, away from the bridge, where the darkest bruising is. “It don’t hurt.”

“But you haven’t been icing it.” Roman’s voice had dipped into that register where it’s halfway between his normal tone and his ‘authority’ tone: stern, deep and harsh.

“Well, fuck, it ain’t like I got ice shootin’ out my dick, doc.”

“God,” Roman made a face, but couldn’t help but say that one word in the smallest little chuckle. “You want a ride or not? I think it was supposed to rain, but if Mr. Callihan is gonna--”

“Whoa, dude, Mr. Callihan’s my _father_ ,” Roman hadn’t even heard Sami join them, but he swings his arm onto Mox’s shoulder, which sunk just a little to make it easier for the other to reach. “And dude, I told ya, I had to drop my truck off at the mechanic’s after this so I gotta go like, right now.”

Scrunching up his eyebrows, apparently in no real hurry, Mox goes to answer, but Sami interrupts. “Ya know what? Nah. Go with him, bro. That way we’re not stuck in the rain. Plus…” his voice trails off, but his lips mouth words too unintelligible to read with how quick he speaks, but when Mox slugs him in the arm, the smaller of the two lets out a yelp that melts into peels of laughter.

“That’s what I thought! He’ll go with you. Later Jon!”

Raising his hand in a noncommittal wave as the other runs away, he sighs, as if inconvenienced, as if deep in the back of his mind, he wasn’t already thinking of hitching a ride anyway. “Guess that answers that.”

“Great, let’s go.”

* * *

The car ride, for what it was worth, was nothing like Roman thought it might be.

Out in public, Jon Moxley was crass, rude, kind of a pain in the ass. He was either silently brooding or yelling, snarling at people; a street dog, as some people called him when he was in the ring. It fit him, kinda, as long as he didn’t have rabies.

So Roman had kind of planned for that. He’d planned on that mouth saying needless rude things, uselessly talking and making snide comments about whatever, but what he actually got was a quiet car ride. Well…

…quiet, except for the sound of teeth on a thumbnail.

Brown eyes slide over to the passenger seat when he coasts to a stop at a red light - the _only_  red light between here and the apartment - and he sees someone who looks too small in his SUV, his back pressed against the seat and his legs kind of curled up in front of him. For some reason, it fills Roman with something, something a little sad, a little pained, and while usually he urges himself to stay in his emotional lane and let the kid have his silence, he wasn’t about that right now.

“You can stretch out your legs, ya know,” he says it through a chuckle, keeping the air light and easy, and when Mox looks up at him curiously, as if he’s not sure what he’s even talking about, Roman raises his eyebrows. “There’s plenty of room.”

“Tha’s the prob’em.” His thumb is still in his mouth, teeth scraping against skin and nail, but not really biting. Dragging his thumb out of his mouth and flicking his bottom lip down as he did so, he cautiously stretches his legs out for all of two seconds before he huddles back up again. “’s nothin’ against you.” _Why would it be?_  “Jus’… every time I get in a car, I’m doin’ somethin’ else.”

_“The amount of cars I see him climb into is impressive.”_

Shaking his head and pushing his foot onto the gas as the light turns green, Roman focuses on the road, but he inclines his head slightly, still intent on speaking. “Nah, I get it. Rest assured, I’m not lookin’ for that tonight.”

Maybe he’d said it weird, put certain inflection where it didn’t belong, because suddenly he felt a pair of eyes staring at him. Sure that the street was bare and there weren’t cars in front or behind him, he chances a small glance over, and he feels something stir in his stomach, warm and insistent, because Mox has inched a little closer, untangled himself from his little ball of anxiety, and his eyes are big.

Big and blue. Kind of gorgeous, actually.

“You sure ‘bout that?” yet, he talks as if he knows something Roman doesn’t, one hand reaching out to twirl a piece of dark hair against his finger before said finger runs down his side and over his thigh. Brushing against a place it had no reason to, and it makes Roman grip the steering wheel. “’cause I’ve seen what ‘not interested’ looks like. You are _not_  that.”

One last turn and it’s a straightaway, leading right to the clinic. Five more minutes, _tops _.__  If the conversation ended at that point, Roman might have been able to breathe a little better, but the air inside the SUV was charged now, spiked with something he hadn’t really known had been thrumming underneath his skin, in his veins, until he heard it oozing out of Mox’s words just now.

The finger was joined by its friends, and suddenly a hand was cupping the half-hard on he was sporting, apparently, thumb underneath and rubbing circles and lines atop the jean-clad bulge. His grip faltered on the steering wheel, but he got them back, parked in the small parking lot behind the clinic before he grabbed onto Mox’s wrist. When he looked over, brown eyes blown dark, Mox had his tongue poking out from his lips, swiping it across, licking his chops like the rabid animal he was known for.

“Don’t start what you can’t finish.”

“Oh, I intent to finish.” Smirk.

“Get out the damn car.”

Still smirking, Mox takes his hand back and gets out of the car, for once being obedient. He walks around - swaggers, was more accurate, the same as he did after the show - the front and stops just before Roman opens the door, hands on his hips, the only clothing he’s got on are the long-sleeved shirt and the wrestling trunks he wore.

The slightly-smaller man’s boner looks kind of obscene in them.

Taking Mox by the wrist again, the dark-haired drags him around and up the stairs. It’s a little difficult to maneuver two muscular ( _horny_ ) dudes inside the doorway, considering both want to get in as quick as possible. Mox heads straight inside, ignoring Bayley and JoJo finishing cleaning up, and goes inside Roman’s bedroom. Roman, meanwhile, turns to hang up his coat and to inconspicuously adjust himself, breathing deeply.

“Hey, baby girl. You have fun with Bayley?”

“Uh huh. Now ‘m sleepy.”

Grinning a bit, he picks her up. “Thanks again, Bayley. You need a ride, or are you good?”

“I’m okay,” she hurries to say, voice a little higher, eyes purposefully sticking to the sleepy girl in his arms. “Mom’s gonna be here any minute to come get me.” A car beeps below, and she perks up. “That’s me, okay, well, see you tomorrow Roman!”

Smiling at her - she was blushing, too, and he couldn’t help but laugh at that - he waits until he hears the car drive away, before he walks to the direction of JoJo’s room and sets her down in bed. The girl’s eyes are practically lidded already, heavy and tired, practically asleep by the time he bends down and kisses her. Like she always does, she giggles as his beard tickles her chin, and he runs his hand through her hair soothingly before she’s out like a light.

He waits a second, then tiptoes out, closing the door some before he walks with purpose back to his bedroom.

Sleep the furthest thing from the forefront of his mind.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for smut? -tilts microphone towards the audience-  
> Because, dear readers, we all were waiting for this, weren't we?
> 
> Who's ready for hearts to be broken? -tilts microphone again-  
> Because, dear readers... I don't want them to be the only ones to suffer with a capital   
> S-U-F-F-E-R. 
> 
> Enjoy!

When Moxley opens his eyes, the sun is just rising, not doing much in the way of lighting up the bedroom he was in; last night had been a… a fucking _trip_ , and it had been a long time since he had been sober and able to remember it the next morning. His body still felt pleasantly heavy, limbs jelly-like and his naked chest stick with sweat. Greasy hair curled on his forehead, in his eyes, sticking to his skin wherever it touched.

For all of two seconds, his heart slammed up into his throat, cutting off his air supply, and a deeply-rooted feeling of panic started flitting underneath his skin. Feeling in his fingers came back like he was thawing from being in a large freezer, dull nails scratching against a warm chest, firm and sticky.

His leg was propped up against a thick thigh, slid between two muscular legs. His body left little room between himself and Roman, both being sleep-warm and heavy, but that all-too familiar buzzing allows him to slowly peel himself off of the sleeping older man, pulling his arm off of his chest and scooting away enough to reach down to the floor and grab his black gear.

His other line of work didn’t often permit him to stay the night - the only time he did was if he had a wrestling show during the day and had somehow managed to be picked up looking as if he’d rolled out of a bar fight. Lately, it hadn’t been too often - not since he’d decided to try to pursue this wrestling thing full-time. Usually, he was out before the other even woke up from their post-fuck sleep. This time, his body was too heavy, down from its high and lazy and warm.

And had he gotten a proper nights’ sleep? Probably.

Breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, he runs his fingers through his hair, getting it off of his forehead and giving his head a shake before he shimmies back into his trunks; unlike all those other times, he had no intention of getting out of here. That was new. Scooting back, and narrowly avoiding a large, tan arm that raised up slightly and reached to scratch at his bare stomach before falling back onto the bed.

(Not) for the first time, he’s completely unsure of whether the buzzing under his skin is telling him to crawl back into bed or get the _hell_  out.

* * *

Lust came with the job.

Day in, day out - before he had decided to make his body a canvas for bruises, scars, he used it in a different physical sense. Using it for pleasure, either giving or receiving it, and getting money in exchange. He had gotten enough in the way of emotional warfare to be able to shut himself down when it came down to being brought home, not to mention he was a lithe motherfucker, a little more flexible than someone else with his build.

But for all he could brag about his ability to not get attached to people, he sure could recognize the difference between somebody not wanting him around, and… the opposite of that.

The night before, he had seen the lust in Roman’s eyes - dark, heady, but what had really given it away was how supercharged the air around them had become. Never _mind_  the tightened grip on his steering wheel. Though that had certainly made it a lot easier for Mox to make certain that yeah, the big man was fucking _aroused._

It didn’t bother him any; for what it was worth, he was plenty horny, too.

Roman had left him in the bedroom while he went to see to the other matters - that little girl of his, the one who drew him those pictures and gave him those colored pages from her book, the ones he kept stowed away in his gym bag, away from the naked eye because _Jon fucking Moxley_ was a _dangerous_  motherfucker - and gave him enough time to get right down to business. (And momentarily forgetting that this wasn’t business. This was him giving into those impulses he otherwise liked to think of as ‘seen and not heard’.)

He’d stripped off his long-sleeve shirt first, tossing it to the side before he hopped up onto the bed. Shimmying underneath the top comforter, one he recognized as sweet-smelling and entirely too soft, he hitches his thumbs underneath his trunks and slips them off, giving himself a few rough courtesy strokes until he’s fully hard before he hears footsteps making their way back toward him.

When Roman breaches the doorway, he looks a little harried.

“Ya doin’ alright, big guy?” yet, he doesn’t really sound all that concerned, because Moxley is _very_  aware of the effects he’s had thus far. His voice has this lustful, gravelly husk to it, low and eager, and he sees the older man’s nostrils flare before he strips off his shirt in one quick movement.

A lot of the things leading up to them both being naked could be classified as ‘quick’. It was honestly surprisingly easy to fall into this rhythm, considering how long Mox had been doing this, but there had been just one difference.

He didn’t have his backpack with him this time - the one that had his supplies in it, spare clothes… he usually had it with him when he worked on the streets, not trusting any random sleazeball to provide adequate protection, but from what he’d seen over the past few weeks… Roman wasn’t just some sleazeball.

Roman stood in his boxers before long, the tent left in the wake of his heightened arousal making blue eyes approvingly drag along the crease of the underwear, making a noise in the back of his throat before uttering a tight-sounding “Nice,” in approval.

Lips pulled up in a smirk. “Like what you see, boy?”

All Mox did was lick his lips, mock-concerned that he might be drooling, before he crawled forward and grabbed the larger man’s hips, dragging him forward so his mouth could get even a ghost of a feeling of the heavy dick. A large hand cupped the back of his head, giving it a little tug, though didn’t put any force or roughness behind the touch. Before allowing himself to follow the hand’s direction, he pressed his tongue against a damp spot before he looked up with an impish smirk, tongue lolled out.

“Y’gonna split me in half,” he panted, excited. “I’ll get’cha nice and wet, then just fuckin’ get it.”

Between the saliva that gathered in his mouth and the pre-cum dribbling down Roman’s dick, it didn’t take long to get him to full-hardness, thick and hot in Moxley’s mouth. When he pulled his mouth away, there was a string of spit between his lip and the tip of the other’s dick, and he slurped obscenely before looking at the larger man.

He looked fucking _wrecked_  already, lost, and Mox prided himself on his work.

Despite Mox’s order for Roman to just ‘get it’, the older had taken at least part of an opportunity to prepare him properly; he man-handled the younger man slightly, helping him scoot back. Before he could get comfortable, the light-haired flipped over, spreading his knees underneath him, crossing his arms and resting his forehead on top of it.

Kind of bracing himself.

The pain of being taken without preparation never came. Instead, wet fingers pressed insistently against his rim, easing him open slowly. When his hole let his fingers slip inside, he leaned his face in and spit obscenely against his ass, wiping his fingers through it before sliding in and out a couple of times, scissoring and stretching, before he slid his fingers out and lined himself up.

There were no formalities when Roman pushed himself in; he had a hand braced on Mox’s back, the smaller man groaning into his own arm, one long sound until Roman was all the way inside. A few slow, testing thrusts followed, the hand on Mox’s back sliding down to his ass and squeezing his cheek, allowing Roman to get a little deeper, before he gave it a sharp slap.

That made Moxley moan, and he gathered one of Roman’s pillows up underneath his head to muffle the sound.

The man on top of him grabbed the comforter and draped it over them both, pressing him down slightly to completely cocoon him, before he picked up an easy rhythm, not quite so hard to shake the bed as it was deep and deliberate. Meant to make him feel it later.

He wasn’t one for this sort of thing to be dragged out for a long time. Not the biggest fan of foreplay if he __really__  wanted it, but Roman was hitting him in all the right ways, a low moan erupting from within him every time the other pushed in. One of the latter’s muscular arms circled around his stomach, hand wrapped around his length and was pumping in tune with the rhythm he’d set.

It was driving Mox fucking _crazy._

“C’mon, fuck me,” he breathed, spittle on his lip for all of a second before he wiped his face against the pillow. Turning slightly to look back at Roman through the dark canopy the other’s hair made over them, he gasped, suddenly aware in their covered shelter how heavy he’d begun to breathe. His heart was beating too quickly for him not to be feeling this, in more than one way. One of his hands reached back to grip onto Roman’s arm and he spread his thighs a little bit more, giving the other more room to move, and the other pressed his thighs behind his own.

Then, Roman did as Mox had bade.

His hand tightened over the younger’s dick when he got in deeper. A muffled _Haaaah_  escaped the man underneath him, a soft grunt being Roman’s only response, before he thrust his hips in a quicker rhythm. And every time that he thrust in, Mox voiced just how much he liked it with a finger-curling moan, nails digging into the pillow below his head as he tried to push his hips back to make him hit that spot again.

A bunch of unintelligible noises escaped the younger as his orgasm neared, the grip on his dick giving very little relief, his body growing hot and flushed and sweat making their bodies stick and his hair curl on his forehead and on the back of his neck. His grip on Roman’s arm tightens and he almost moves to tap his fingers against the skin, is close to tapping out, but Jon Moxley ain’t a quitter. Instead, his hand slipped down to help set a quicker pace on himself before he felt his hips stutter, his thighs trembling with the sudden force of his climax and he spurted ropes of cum onto himself and the sheets below.

Pulling his hand away from Mox’s softening length and dragging his fingers along the jut of his hips affectionately, Roman presses his face into the crook of his shoulder and thrust one final time before he pulls out and gives himself a few generous strokes and cums hard on Mox’s back and tries hard not to collapse onto it.

Mox falls asleep before he recognizes the dip of the bed and the cool air against his skin as Roman leaves and, later, comes back and wipes a warm, slightly-damp cloth down his back and carefully rolls the lazy man over so he could clean up the bed and his stomach.

Satisfied that he was clean, he wiped himself off and tossed it over to where some of his dirty clothes lie before he laid back against his other pillow, huffing slightly and breathing in deeply to try to regulate his breathing.

Almost as soon as he gets it to a regular level, he feels a warm, lithe body press up against him, a leg bent up between his own, and he finagles his arm underneath the other’s neck at the same time as the smaller leans up to rest his chin atop Roman’s pectoral.

Exhaustion takes over, dragging him into a quiet, restful sleep, his body too heavy to do much else.

* * *

Mox had slipped away sometime before Roman had woken up, but after he slipped on a pair of boxers, pajama pants and a tee shirt and walked out to make sense of life before his cup of coffee, he heard the shower running. Grinning slightly - he’s not sure why, but he feels like a weight’s been lifted from his shoulder, like he’d accomplished some personal goal - he turns into the kitchen…

Where Joelle is sitting at the kitchen table, a plate of eggs and a little overcooked bacon sits for her. She’s got her coloring book too, but she’s too focused on her breakfast, munching happily on the crunchy strip of bacon.

Something tugs in his chest and he looks back in the direction of the bathroom, a soft smile on his face.

On the stove-top, there’s a pan of scrambled eggs, still warm, and a plateful of bacon on the counter next to it. Things are pushed around, taken out of the cabinet where the pots and pans were, giving Roman the impression that Mox had gone looking for something to make breakfast with. His smile broadens a little and he walks over to kiss his daughter’s head gently.

“Mornin’, baby.”

In the distance, he hears his cell phone ring, and jogging in its direction, he turns into his bedroom and reaches down to his jeans - haphazardly thrown onto the ground in his lust-drunk haze, and he has half a mind to try to hide the warm flush to his cheeks - and fingers over the screen to punch in his lock code and answer the phone call.

“Hello?”

_“Roman, Roman, Roman. Do I have some good news for you, my boy!”_

There’s this voice in his head, and sometimes it throws him massively off-guard, because yeah, New York, but he hadn’t expected to become so attached to… _to…_

The water from the shower turns off, and footsteps pad across the hall and into the bedroom, a soppy-haired, dripping-wet Jon Moxley walks inside with a towel wrapped around his slender waist, bending down to retrieve his long-sleeved shirt and his trunks, and Roman chews on his bottom lip as he pads over to one of his drawers to pull out a pair of sweatpants and tossing it on the bed near where Mox had started tugging on his clothes.

And despite being _inside_  the younger man hours before, there was something strangely intimate about Mox walking around with Roman’s sweatpants hugging around his waist, tied tightly just to keep them up, the baggy pant legs swallowing up his lower body as he shuffled back out of the room, whistling a tune only he knew.

_“The doctor that squeezed into that last fellowship spot pulled out at the last second. It’s yours if you want it, but you’d have to be in New York by the end of the week. You still want it, right?”_

He… he still _wants_ it… right?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know - this chapter is a lil' shorter than the other ones. But if I did anything else with it, it would have been ruined. I'll make up for it plenty in the chapters to come, I promise. You might just get a happy ending out of me. ;]
> 
> (There's not much more to go. No more than five chapters or so. Then, it's off to something else. Thanks for liking this so much - maybe I'll do another RoMox in the future!) 
> 
> Hope you like it!

_You still want it, right?_

It would have been a lot easier to answer that question if, the same as before, Jon Moxley had gone up in smoke instead of leaving his scent all over Roman’s bed ; he needed time to think, because he liked it here, liked working in such an area that he had gotten a little attached a little too quickly to his patients, his nurses.

But New York… it was his fucking _dream,_ everything he’d worked for, his goal since day fucking one.

Roman was aware the clock was ticking - today was Wednesday, and he was given until Friday, but if he wanted to get to New York, he had to leave tomorrow. That wasn’t a lot of time to make a decision, but it shouldn’t have been a hard one to make. But, it was.

Phone still pressed to his ear, he sits down on the bed, feeling the words heavily drape over him like smoke, because it’s a lot to ask him to leave now. It was _always_  meant to be temporary, an in-between job while he waited to see what happened, but…

_“Roman? You still there?”_

“Uh. Yeah. I have ‘til Friday, right?”

_“To get to New York, Roman. Not to make a decision. If you need time, you can tell me by noon today, but I need an answer. Don’t let me down.”_

Without making a formal goodbye, Mr. Helmsley hangs up, and after turning off his phone and resting it on his bed, he gets up and drags his hands through his hair, tugging it into a bun. His alarm clock blared then, reminding him he had work to do, and further reminding him that this might be the last time he’d get to think that before he went over to flick it off.

He quickly got into a pair of neat jeans and grabbed a collared shirt, buttoning it up and walking out, putting on his million-dollar fake smile.

“Hey, baby,” the fact that both Joelle _and_  Mox looked up was _not_  helping, “Why don’t you go get dressed? Leave me to talk to Jon for a while.”

It sounded weird saying his name out loud, because he _always_  called him Mox in his head, but it doesn’t really affect him or dawn on him at all until JoJo is hopping out of the room that maybe, there’s something that needs hashing out. Of course, his mind flicks to the worst possible thing, and immediately he stands up.

“Wait-”

“Ya know, I don’t usually stay the night, and I was gonna try and sneak out but your little girl, there? She woke up, sayin’ she was hungry, askin’ me if I could cook. ‘n I got this cousin about her age that I ain’t seen in years, but when she was all tired and shit, she reminded me a lot of her.”

Roman’s eyebrows shot up. “I don’t mind that you cooked for her. I’m more surprised the bacon isn’t black.”

Wrinkling his nose, Mox huffs. “Who was’at on the phone?”

There was no sugar-coating it. “An old co-worker, who… was keeping an eye on something for me.”

“What?”

“...a job.”

“Ya gotta job.”

_Rip it off like a band-aid. No use tryin’ to sugarcoat things._ “No… another one. In New York.”

In that moment, Mox’s face is a messy jumble of emotions; at first, he’s confused, which doesn’t surprise Roman, but it’s obvious that when the words finally sink in, he’s feeling the weight, his eyes taking on this sad edge, lonely, like he was expecting it. He probably had been, but a lot sooner, and he looks down to fidget with the ties of the sweatpants.

“Yer’… gonna leave.”

_I don’t know._

And _god_  does he want to say that. Wants to share his own confusion and worry because he doesn’t- “I have ‘til noon to call him back.”

The gravity of those words, what they mean, how unsure he is is _completely_  lost on Mox as he bends down slightly, hands on his knees like he’s catching his breath. His head shakes a few times, shoulders tense and bunched up, before he stands up and pushes at Roman’s shoulder.

There are tears in his eyes.

“I thought you would be _different!_  I _really_  thought you would be different, but you turned out to be just like _every. Body. Else.”_

And he’s not sniveling, not really - the hurt is evident all over, in his gritted teeth and eyes shining with tears and his breath catching in his throat as he goes to push Roman again, and maybe he deserves this a little. One final push to Roman’s shoulder uses both of Mox’s hands to get him to move, and as his back touches the edge of the counter, Mox is turning away and headed out the door.

“Where did Moxxy go?”

Turning around, Roman can’t help but utter a little chuckle. “He had to go for a little while.” His voice sounds so far away to his own ears, but JoJo is blissfully unaware of what had transpired, and even if she _did_  like Mox, he had to keep it that way. …then, it dawns on him what she had just said, and he rests a palm on the top of her head and scrubs her hair around fondly. “Does he know you call him that?”

“Yeah! He said I could!”

_Both of ‘em. Conspiring against me _.__  “That was nice of him, huh? You like J-- Moxxy?”

“Uh huh! ‘s he coming back?” she looks around him, stealing a look up at him, and he feels this hot burning in his throat, a heaviness in his chest. Leaning forward and picking her up, brushing her bangs from her face, his lips stretch thin.

“Not today, baby girl. You ready to go to the clinic?”

The look on her face - a little dejected, a little confused all wrapped into one frown - told him how she felt about his answer, but he held her closer and popped a loud kiss to her cheek anyway. “Come on. Bayley’s gonna be excited to see you.”

They made their way out, Roman closing the door behind them, and the sounds of JoJo chanting _Bay-Bay-Bay_  followed them from their door to the clinic. He didn’t think he’d find them, but he let his gaze sweep along the street for a pair of blue eyes, maybe some light hair… a dark long-sleeve shirt and his - _his_  - sweatpants. But he didn’t, he… _didn’t _.__

Maybe that was a sign.

Maybe … this had all just been for nothing.

* * *

That thought stays in his head for about two seconds.

At about lunchtime, William Regal stepped through the door, looking neat and clean as he always did. His face looked a little ragged, tired, like he hadn’t slept in days. However, when he saw how downtrodden Roman was, just staring at his cell phone, eyes dialing the number but fingers still, the older man found himself curious. “Should I come back later, Dr. Reigns?”

Roman’s head jerked up, dark hair loosened from his bun, and he stood up to properly meet the older doctor, a hand sweeping his hair up and over to clear his face. “Dr. Regal! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The look in Regal’s eyes didn’t seem to fall for the facade Roman was trying to put out, but apparently, what he had to say was much more important. “Well, I got a phone call from a colleague of mine in Florida.” Roman’s heart was beating like a jackhammer, “That’s where I’ll be retiring to.” The breath he takes isn’t relief. He’s not sure what it is, “And the house I had been looking to live out my days in is ready for my commute.”

“That’s great, Dr. Regal. Congratulations.”

“Ah, ah. I haven’t even told you the best part, Roman!” Regal’s hand reaches forward, resting on Roman’s shoulder, and experience has taught him to straighten and broaden his shoulders, feigning courage, feigning everything. “I want you … to have my practice.”

That’s not what Roman was expecting to hear.

It makes his entire face morph into a permanent ‘o’ face, complete with wide brown eyes and a nervous titter as he manages to say, “Wh…What? Your practice? To me?”

“Yes, my boy!” Regal retracts his hand but claps it with his other one, as if Roman had accepted already. “I also want you to have my house, so you can get out of that grungy apartment upstairs.  I have a housekeeper… but you can fire her if you wish. I don’t want to wait another moment to get down to Florida and you’re the only other person I know who would take good care of it.”

“What about Jon?”

His stupid, _stupid_  mouth, being stupid again. It takes a great deal not to cover his mouth with his hand, but he stands firm.

“No one said anything about him.” Said so casually. Like he wasn’t his adopted father, like he was _nothing_. “He made it quite clear that he wanted nothing to do with me or his family. So, what do you say?” He’s not sure if it’s a coincidence, but the way he can switch the conversation so quickly, so fluidly, is reminiscent of Mox. Roman’s chest starts to ache. “I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time…”

The ringing of the clinic door and a slam interrupts any effort Roman could stand to make to answer, and bowing his head politely, Roman slips around Regal (secretly grateful for the interruption) and peeks his head out. It’s… Callihan?

“Doc! Doc, come quick!”

“What is it?” _Please don’t be Jon, please don’t be…_

“There’s been an attack - Jon, he-”

_Oh, no. Fuck, no no no._

“-he got jumped by some scumbag he used to run with. There’s blood every-”

“Take me.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'know what's weird? i'm working on the last chapter at the current time, then the epilogue, and then this story will be over. done-zo. that is not, however, insinuating that this is the end of romox. because believe you-me, that is not the case. more is comin' your way. 
> 
> but first - enjoy, heathens.

Whatever Roman was expecting, it seemed a _lot_ worse at a passing glance: Jon Moxley was lying against a wall of a building, delirious, head lolling to and fro even if he tried to make his eyes focus, blood dripping from somewhere on his head and from his nose, giving him a full crimson mask. He tried to shake his head, equal parts blood and something else spattering on the ground, on his sweatpants, dripping down his neck and disappearing into his dark shirt.

He’s clearly out of it - either from being slammed into the wall one too many times or he’s lost more blood than it seems - which gives Roman the incentive to go over and touch, feather-light touches, thumb pushing up his bangs so he could take a look at his forehead before he feels Mox jerk, his body reacting before he could tell it to.

Callihan huddles in opposite Roman, occasionally shooting wary glances around to make sure no one is circling them, before he asks, “He gonna be okay?”

Despite the meager protests, Roman picks up the lithe body of Mox, not surprised at all that he doesn’t weigh much. Not surprised, either, that he’s reacting much like a feral kitten, jerking at the slightest touch. Pursing his lips, he looks at Callihan for but a fraction of a second before looking back down at Mox, pulling him close to his chest.

This was his fault.

He shouldn’t have ever gotten attached. Should have never let _Mox_  get attached.

Callihan had led him far enough away that Roman had had to take his SUV, which was no skin off his nose considering he hadn’t been looking forward to weaving through the streets with an out-of-it, bloody Moxley in his arms.

The drive from downtown Cincinnati to the clinic was quiet, with the occasional confused rumble from Mox, and it had Roman’s body buzzing - it was just like any other patient, he tried to rationalize, because admitting in this particular moment that the faint glimmer of warmth in his chest was simply occupational-concern, a doctor looking at a patient, nothing mo-

That statement didn’t even _work._  Of course he fucking cared about Jon Moxley.

Denying it only made all of this hurt more times over.

When they made it to the clinic, he didn’t bother parking in the back parking lot, stopping right in front of the door and barely managing not to throw his keys across the SUV when he yanked them out of the ignition, and he nearly slips and falls on the slippery road - god, it had started to rain, go fucking figure - as he leaps out and runs to the sidewalk-side, opening the door and reaching inside to pull Mox close to his chest.

He’s quietly groaning, rubbing his bloody forehead all over Roman’s shoulder, but he can’t find the energy to care more about his ruined clothes as he shifts and turns to get through the front door.

Finn’s waiting by the front desk, talking with Dr. Regal, standing a little stiff until Roman comes in, rain-soaked and expression hard.

“Doct-”

“Finn, I need you!”

If Regal seemed bothered by the fact that Roman hadn’t acknowledged him - one might say, for the second time that day - he didn’t let it show. Instead, he politely moved out of the way of Roman and Finn, only barely recognizing who was in his arms, before he took a seat on a comfortable chair in the waiting room.

The clock struck noon, the chime filling the small clinic like a pipe organ inside a church.

* * *

It wasn’t any easier seeing Jon Moxley in a hospital bed.

When Roman was positive he didn’t have a concussion, he didn’t put up much of a fuss when Mox started to nod off a little, though he vaguely remembered Finn reminding him to lay back against the pillow. There wasn’t any substantial damage done to Mox, which was relieving; his nose wasn’t broken worse, but it was no more healed than it had been when he’d first given his prognosis. The bruising was dark, probably hurt like hell, but Roman had been able to put a proper cast onto it, despite the fact that he was sure to hear about it in the near future.

He’d been standing in the hallway for what felt like a lifetime, and as he turned to walk away he felt his phone start to ring.

Reaching his hand into his pocket, he scrunched up his lips, prepared to be yelled at or demanded something he couldn’t give. Maybe both.

“Hello.”

_“Roman, it’s after noon, boy. Need my answer.”_

Hunter. “I know you do. Something came up, Hunter. I ca…” _can’t_ , as if he wanted to go in the first place. As if he had any intention of making it halfway to New York before he found an excuse to turn right back around. “My answer is… I’m staying in Cincinnati.”

_“Alright. Okay. I’ll let my associate kn--”_

“Wait! …wait.”

He can see through the phone the instant red blooming onto Hunter’s face; he’d never liked being interrupted, someone treating him as if he wasn’t better than them, wasn’t The Authority Figure, but it didn’t matter. If he weren’t climbing off of the adrenaline train at the current time, exhausted from the ride even if it was no more than _moments_ , he might have laughed about it.

“ _I_  might not be able to fill the position. But, I know someone more than qualified, with double my skills.”

“ _ _I’m listening.__ ”

* * *

The last thing Moxley expects to see upon waking is the clean, pale walls of one of the patient rooms at the clinic, and never _mind_  the fact that he probably would have found reason to complain whether he had ended up here or back on that wall.

Still, even if he _had_  the capacity to complain, he couldn’t find the will to do so. His head hurt way too damn much, and… his nose felt weird.

Reaching his fingers up, he idly fingered the new cast placed upon it, wincing only a little when he pushed upon it carefully, testing it, before he nearly jumped out of his skin to see a tall, dark-haired man walk through the door to his room, dressed in a pair of gray scrubs.

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

“Halle-fuckin’-lujah,” Mox gripes, catching the look in the male nurse’s eyes at the sight of him touching his nose. Rubbing his hands through his hair instead, he hunches into the bed, trying to look as small as possible.

The male nurse burst into a small smile, one Mox wasn’t sure he understood, before he said, “My name is Finn. I’ll be looking after you for as long as you’re here, and speaking of that: do you remember what happened to you?”

“One minute, I was walkin’ to the bar, the next I was sittin’ here.” It’s not entirely the truth, because he remembers quite just enough how a ghost of his past - some raging shitbag who ran with the same drug-riddled crowd he had in high school - had cornered him on the street and run him into the wall. He also remembered that he had _not_  been going to the bar. The only reason he was getting away with lying was because he wasn’t talking to...

Well. He’d never have to anymore.

“Well,” Finn started, his smile a little smaller like he was trying to keep a serious face but he was hiding some scandalous secret, “The good news is you’re goin’ta be fine - you can go whenever you're ready t' go.”

He’s past the point of ‘getting his hopes up’, after years of doing so yielded the same damn disappointing result, but he can’t help but feel this flutter of something in his stomach. Kind of like he’s going to throw up, kind of like he’s about to laugh. Maybe it’s gas.

All Mox does is lay back against the thick pillow, huffing in frustration, before he slips himself out of bed, grateful that he wasn’t attached to any IVs so he could slowly start to get his clothes back on.

The clothes were neatly folded on a roll-away chair: a dark long-sleeve shirt, and a pair of gray sweatpants. The shirt was a little tricky to get on over his nose, but to his credit, he only said a few distasteful words by the time he had it set it place before he realized it was backwards. Turning it around with a melodramatic roll of his eyes, he flattened it against his flat stomach before he reached for the sweatpants.

He’d… kind of expected them to be dirty, dried blood on the legs, grime on the ass… but, these were clean, soft, sweet-smelling…

“I never thought I would see the day when you finally stepped foot inside this place.”

Looking over his shoulder, standing in his shirt and trunks, Mox felt this surge of shock to see the aging William Regal standing before him, face passive, eyes looking over him as if he were a thug, like he was a deplorable human being that he was being forced to fraternize with. Uttering a scoff and rolling his eyes, Mox turns to face the man who could have been, should have been, a parent to him but chose instead to hate him.

“Th’fuck do you care?” his voice has no venom in it. People could call it whatever they like, but he just doesn’t have the energy to be an asshole right now. All he can do is give this watered-down angry look. “You want anything, or can I go? …are those my papers?”

His eyes had immediately fallen upon folded pieces of paper in Regal’s jacket pocket, sticking out, and he hoped that whatever omniscient being was unlucky enough to be watching over him lately would cut him some damn slack and just let him go back to living his damned life--

“Your discharge papers? Heavens, no. These are for Roman.”

“Ya just missed ‘em.” There’s bitterness in his tone, and suddenly, he remembers why he’s not at full hostility. He remembers why he hadn’t been paying attention, how his vision was just this side of blurry, emotions he was almost glad he had pushed away spilling down his face like magma. His skin still felt strangely tight.

Yeah, okay, _fine _.__  He’d been fucking crying. The most dangerous man in his company had fucking feelings. Go fucking figure.

And it almost happens again when Regal utters a laugh, words characteristically warm. “I’m afraid you’re correct. He’s currently on the phone, but he’s been in there for a while, so who knows how well it’s going.”

_He’s here._

A last ditch effort to end this thing before it __became__ a thing, Mox tries to walk past Regal. He gets to the door, but gives pause when he hears Regal’s footfalls walking in the opposite direction, standing where he once had been. Curiosity killed the Mox, and he turns around, waiting for something he expects to have come by now, but ultimately did not.

“Why _did_  you come?”

Regal’s face is too calm. It’s always put Mox on-edge, how he could emote so much and give away too little all in one conversation. Unnerving bastard.

“I had a favor to ask of Roman. Not that it’s any of your business, Jonathan,” ah, there it was, “-but you’ll be happy to know that I will be selling this place.”

“Tch. Which poor bastard is gonna want this old dump?”

It would be too much to ask for some divine intervention - maybe someone much more desirable interrupting whatever answer Regal could give, but alas, no one was on his side. Maybe he should have expected that. After all, that’s how it’d _always_ been.

“You would say that.” Mox bristles but says nothing. Regal goes on, ignoring it. “I have to be going. I suppose you do, too. Goodbye, Jonathan.”

As Regal walks back toward him and out the door, singing his own rendition of _Fly Me to the Moon_ , Mox stares, but recovers quickly when he sees the door of Roman’s once-office start to open.

He’s out of there before whoever was on the other side entered the hallway.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter could be considered the 'final' chapter. But, I have an epilogue already planned, because I want y'all to see what a year does. Will it be good things? Bad things? Am I stalling because I don't want this story to end because I love it so much?  
> (YES)
> 
> Enjoy, heathens.

Life had a funny way of showing that he was always and forever, meant to be alone.

Not like Mox didn't prefer it that way; people always have the dumbest reasons to want to stick around, but eventually they always learn. He was poison. Toxic and deadly, whether it was his habits or his mouth or his fists. There was no changing something five minutes that he'd accumulated over the span of his 24 years of life, anyway. 

The person to overcome all of that was Sami Callihan. 

In the strangest of ways, he found comfort in the presence that Callihan had - he was kind of erratic, kind of crazy, but at the end of the day he was the only thing close to a friend that Moxley had ever had. He looked out for him, showed him that only some of the world was cruel, made him realize that there was, at least,  _one_ person rooting for him. 

Callihan had been something like a placebo. 

Getting off drugs had been nothing short of a miracle. It had been painful, but he liked pain, could handle it in worse dosages than a fever or illness and shakes. It helped that Callihan stuck around on the bad days. Mox didn't think it would, that  _he_ would, but he did. 

But being off that shit, suddenly not numb anymore, that was the hardest part. Because his mind was a dangerous, dark place;  _nobody wants you, could ever want you_ , so loud in his head. Make him think things, want things,  _need..._

Callihan showed him wrestling ... and that was just about all she wrote; a way to get out his aggression, to keep his body busy, keep his mind busy. It was a welcome distraction than the dark recesses of his mind, where the demons lurked, and eventually it didn't become just another need. It became a want. 

He started to  _enjoy_ wrestling - punching, kicking, clawing and biting, the psychology, the movement and the training and the ... everything. It gave him a sense of ... something, like worth, being able to entertain people. Even if most of them didn't like him anyway, but that was fine. They're not the only ones in life who had kicked him to the ground. 

Jon Moxley had  _always_ gotten back up. 

Things, despite them not being super-great, were okay for once. He found something to be passionate about, something to balance the bad things, the swirling clusterfuck that was his life suddenly seemed less clustered and less 'fucky' and suddenly started to just...  _be._

Then...

Roman Reigns. 

Sami Callihan might have been the placebo, the thing to stimulate good feelings, to help him get himself under control, but Roman was the  _catalyst._

Even when Mox had started to like the wrestling, he still didn't have any money. To pay for some things, he had to get fast cash, and if his mother could do it and keep their apartment ... well. Easy money was better than no money, even if he was a little bummed that he'd turned out to be a whore. 

But being around Roman as often as he'd been - by no fault of his own, he didn't  _like_ the guy or anything - made this ...  _thing_ click inside him. Like ' _you don't want this for yourself_ ' and when he could take the credit for it, completely uninfluenced, it was easier to stomach that maybe the whoring around wasn't all that necessary. The wrestling stuff paid money he'd much rather have, and all without a burning asshole from fuckers who wanted his thin little body to fuck into. 

It just figured, though, that once he got off the streets and he decided to pursue the wrestling thing full-time, 100-percent ... that things would get confusing, complicated.

* * *

His pre-match routine wasn't anything extravagant; once he changed out of his clothes and into his gear - his simple black trunks, his denim vest with MOX spray-painted on the back of it - and wet his hair with half a water bottle, he takes several breaths, bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

He raises his fists - it used to be easy to imagine someone's face, like Regal's, on the receiving end of the punches he fists into the air in front of him. But, he finds, it's just a shadow of a face now. One-one-two, one, two. 

Moxley's style was more like a scrapper than a wrestler, but it doesn't seem to bother anybody. He didn't exactly have proper training but Callihan, who helped him a great deal when he'd started out, but he'd been doing this enough that he felt like a veteran. He supposed it said something about his skill or something, that he'd only been in this for less than a year, and all anyone could ever talk about was that he moved like he'd fought his way outta the womb. 

Made him feel good.

Validation was a whole  _different_ drug.

* * *

He had a championship opportunity tonight. His first one. For the greatest in this promotion, and he was the furthest thing from nervous tonight; the crowd hadn't yet completely rallied behind him, but he knew that it wasn't about them tonight. That belt was coming home with him. It would fit on top of his waist-

( _big hands, running up and down his sides, a warm palm pressing against his flat stomach..._ )

-Mox falls back against a locker, a little winded, feeling a little cold. 

_Would'a been nice if he was here._

The popping of his knuckles as he cracks them across his chest isn't anywhere near the relief he hopes it would be, but it brings him out of his head, and that's as good as he finds he's gonna get-

( _lips soothing a nasty bruise, dark, but not nearly as painful as it is warm..._ )

Someone finds him leaning against the locker, ignoring his dampened expression, letting him know that he has five minutes to get to curtain. Standing up straight, shaking off all this emotional bullshit because  _I got a belt to win_ , he hunches his shoulders and stalks off down the hallway. 

Callihan's waiting for him, is peeking through the curtain, and when Mox clunks up in his boots and nudges him with his elbow, he jumps and spins around. "You ready for this."

"Born ready."

"Sure you don't want me out there?"

"I can do it." Pause. Contemplating. "You sit in the audience if ya want. I got this."

Callihan punches a fist into his arm. Not a punch, just a touch. "Yeah, you got this. Easy-peasy. I'm gonna stay back here though. I'll come out later and jump ya."

It's the closest thing to smiling that Mox has done in a while, and he pounds a closed fist against Callihan's shoulder before he hears their music play. 

He's got this.

He's  _got_ this.

* * *

He...  _doesn't_ got this.

It had started out good for him - he'd waited, had lay low, let his nose heal and had stayed out of any gigs for weeks, but he'd started wading through the strategy in his head. His opponent tonight had had a past injury in his shoulder, so he'd attack it, waste no time getting that arm and its twin out of commission. 

The guy couldn't do leg submissions to save his life. 

But Mox could. 

The bell had rung, and immediately, Mox ran forward and twisted the guy's arm back, pounding relentlessly into his injured shoulder, his back, his arm. Anything, trying to demobilize him, making that arm weak. Kicks the back of the guy's knee, makes him get on the ground, bends his arm as far as it can go and yanks...

Other Guy wraps his fingers through his hair, though, and yanks him over his shoulder by the head. 

" _Whoa-!_ "

It's more garbled, definitely lost in the loud crowd chanting the guy's name, but it's the first time Mox realizes he might be in a little bit of trouble. 

His arm isn't even a loose, dead weight. It's the one punching him repeatedly in the head, focusing on the scrape from the attack weeks before, opening it up until the left side of his face is masked in red. 

This was the kind of shit he dared to like. 

Blood was spilling from his temple, but it's bright, not dark. He's not in danger. 

Still, it's not enough. 

A few more calculated punches and the guy leans forward to spit in Mox's other eye, but is stopped when Mox kicks his leg and uses his feet to push him away. 

He's got a little bit of time, and he takes it, backing himself up and getting onto his feet, getting a feel of his head and running his hand through his hair. 

Other Guy is panting, nursing that shoulder now.  _Good_. 

"That all you got?" Mox yells, a mixture of jeers and cheers echoing in the crowd. "Gonna have to do better'n that, sunshine!"

From there, they run at each other. A frenzy of punches, headbutts from Mox, a running clothesline from Other Guy, but eventually there has to be a winner. It gets dicey, the adrenaline is near-empty on Mox's end, but he's gotta pull through. He's earned this, damn it. 

Victory seems further and further away, the more winded he gets - his energy comes in bursts, rigorous punches and exhausted near-falls. It's always an almost, a maybe - a testament to his life, a never-ending cycle of almosts, until...

" _Go, Moxxy!_ "

His body cranes into the corner, head whipping back and forth, but the lights blot out the faces of the audience; his mind was playing tricks on him. That had to be it. She was gone and her dad was gone, and they were much better off--

" _C'mon!_ "

Mox's body runs forward before Other Guy can catch his breath completely, catching him with a clothesline so vicious that he flips him completely around in the air. Falling onto his knees, Mox goes for the cover...

_1... 2... 3!_

"And your winner! The NEW World Champion!  _Jooooon Mooooooooooxley!_ "

The title - black with gold and white accents - is handed to him and the ref takes his hand to raise it, but he feels as if he isn't in the ring anymore. When his hand is raised, he yanks it back, instead choosing to hold up his title by one strap - he's honestly a little surprised that there are more cheers than boos this time, and that makes him run up to the ropes and climb up where it intersects with the post, holding it and shaking it around. 

He feels like he's flying. It's a good kind of high now.

Just as he promised, Callihan comes barreling down the ramp, dives into the ring, and pulls Mox off the ropes to hug him tight. His cries of "Ya did it, Jon!" echo the voice in his head. 

_I did it._

* * *

The locker room is full of people by the time Roman gets there but, unsurprisingly, the person he was looking for wasn't inside. 

"Daddy, is Moxxy in 'dere?" JoJo asks, looking up at him with big brown eyes, and Roman has no choice but to smile at her; he hadn't wanted her to see Mox wrestle yet, didn't want her subjected to violence at four year old (and at the hand of someone that she -and he, both- liked) but he'd seen this match in papers and on the community bulletin board and it was talked about by patients who were into it all. It helped that she fell asleep on the car ride and woke up only just before she'd sought to call out to him. 

"Not yet, baby girl," Roman says, "He might be taking a shower. It's a lot of work, going up there, doin' what he loves to do."

"Oh," is all she says.

It doesn't take too long to run into somebody they know, even if it wasn't the one they were looking for; Callihan walks out of the locker room, dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, hair wet and hanging over his face. Upon seeing Roman and little JoJo, he trots right over, a big grin on his face. 

"Did ya see? Jon did it!"

"I seed!" JoJo squealed, jumping in place, and Callihan leans down to chatter mindlessly to her about the match. Roman, meanwhile, looks over them both and down the hallway, hoping to see someone coming down to join them but is sorely disappointed when no one does. 

"He's cuttin' a [promo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J8Ut66vLqd4) right now around the corner. He's a lil' sore, but I think he'd be happy to see ya."

The smile on Roman's lips lit up his whole face, and he looked down at JoJo, whose smile was much wider, like she was let in on a surprise. Maybe this was something of a surprise, considering Mox didn't know they were there, and for all he knew, JoJo's excited call of 'Moxxy!' was some jibe from the crowd or something. 

"Just around this corner?" Roman asks, points down the hall. 

Callihan nodded. "Yeah. Don't let him see ya though. Wait 'til the cameraman walks away."

"Right."

* * *

"--what about the World Heavyweight Champion of Combat Zone Wrestling versus the Ultra-Violent Tournament of Death Champion! You and Scotty Vortekz next month?"

Mox stops rubbing his temples, looks up at Maven, and cocks his head a little. "Who?"

"Scotty!" Maven raises his hands, like it's obvious, "The guy who Tournament of Death? Naptown Dragons...?"

"Oh, oh," Mox rubs a hand over his eyes, the damage done to his head catching up with him, everything throbbing in tandem with each breath he took and each word slurred in exhaustion. At least the blood had been cleaned up... "That blond kid."

"Yeah. Yeah, the guy's been undefeated since Tournament of Death, I think he's the rightful number one contender right now."

"That's cool," Mox says, dismissive, head lolling a little, feeling a drunk. "He's got nice hair." As he starts to slowly scoot into the corner, he feels his entire body ache and he winces, intent on doing nothing else but getting more stability behind him. It's a slow process, each movement bringing a deeper wince, and Maven reaches out as if to help but retracts his hand. 

"Have... you seen a doctor? No, you stay there," he walks away before he sees Mox wave him off,  _no, please don't._ "Can I get a doc in the back for Mox, please?" he speaks into his walkie, simultaneously as the cameraman moves to end the shot. "He's by the back door." 

_Click._

"Alright, Moxley. We're done here."

The pain wasn't completely played up for the camera, but he wants to pretend it is, and Mox moves to stand but finds himself right back where he started, uttering a groan under his breath before he nods. "Right."

A beat of quiet follows - just enough that Mox can nudge the belt closer with his foot and drape it over his stomach, before he hears footfalls walking toward him. 

"I don' need a doctor," he slurs, gritting his teeth when they only get closer and he feels the presence of someone looming over him. "I  _said-_ "

"Jesus, you are too damned stubborn."

Jon Moxley's entire body went still, the hand covering his eyes slowly moving away from his face and resting over his new championship belt, his head turning up to glare at Roman, who looked much more concerned with mother-henning than anything else. Before he could say something, probably nasty, Roman continued. 

"And  _yes._ I think you  _do_ need to see a doctor. Lucky for you, I happen to know one."

"'zat so?" Mox leans his head against the wall, his eyelids heavy, but he wants to remember this daydream. If it's even that.  _Maybe I'm just tired._ "I don't wanna see a doctor."

Roman smiles then. Gets down on his knees and leans into Mox's space. It means the world that he doesn't move away or jerk his body when Roman grabs his chin carefully. "Tough."

Their lips touch in an impossibly gentle press, one that Mox wants a little harder, a little deeper, but Roman makes him settle for this. The kiss is long and slow, until Roman puls back and starts to stand up again, reaching his hand out for Mox to grab. 

It takes him a moment, but when he does, Roman pulls him in close, wrapping an arm around him. "Good job, Jon."

Mox tries to squirm his way out of the embrace, and Roman loosens his hold, only for Mox to reach up under his ponytail and drag his face down for a kiss, one set at  _his_ pace. And Roman, he's perfectly okay with that, wrapping an arm around Mox's naked waist, his hand stretched out across his lower back.

For the first time in a few weeks, Moxley finally ...  _finally_... feels right again.


	15. Epilogue: One Year Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe it. it's /finally/ done, and idk how to feel about it. thank you everyone for reading, i know i had y'all waiting a while for this, and i hope it's worth it - i kinda edited this at 4:35am, so if you spot any inconsistencies, let me know and i'll fix it. 
> 
> thank you for going on this journey with me - there will be more roman/mox to come. enjoy, heathens. 
> 
> -ctw

"Remember, take one pill every four hours, not whenever you actually feel pain. Make sure you give me a call in a couple weeks and we'll see where your spine is at then. If you can't make it out here, I'd be happy to make a house call."

His patient nodded his head, a knobby hand rubbing at the side of his arm. "You got it, Dr. Reigns. One day my back will be all healed."

Roman smiled his patient, knowing smile. "One day. But you've got to take the proper steps to letting your back heal. Your bone is slowly growing back, but you could do serious damage to your back with all the work you do, and while I understand that you can't just sit around and do nothing, you've got to take a lesser load of work. Your pain won't stop if you don't."

"I understand. Thanks again, doctor. I know I'm an irritating patient."

This time, Roman giggles, and he helps his patient off the cot. "Bayley will help with your paperwork, and I'll see you in a couple weeks."

When his patient exited the room, Roman followed and heaved a sigh, turning in the opposite direction, into his office; he was sure he had paperwork to fill out, e-mails to check, and would be stuck at his desk for a couple of hours to work all of it out. But this, he could handle this, because finally things were working out and would continue to do so.

A year ago, Roman had been left with a large house - previously owned by Regal, all paid off and ready to be lived in - and a decision to make: whether or not he wanted to keep or sell it. The obvious choice was to keep it and live in it, despite it having too much extra space to make it comfortable, but he'd had a different idea in mind.

He could stand living in his apartment, because it was comfortable despite its size. What he _couldn't_ stand was the fact that his clinic was the same size, with small patient rooms and a tightly-packed lobby.

The decision, from that point, had been pretty clear: use the space he was given practically for free, and convert the too-big-for-him house into a general hospital.

The most time-consuming thing was the renovating - he had broken down and called his father, asking for a loan to help pay for some of the expenses to do so, insisting over and over that he'd pay him back and fly them out for a visit soon - which had taken almost six months and involved a few trips with his SUV and Bryan, Finn and his boyfriend Sami, who he had asked to help him move some of the stuff and who gratefully accepted.

(Bryan even brought subs for them from the pizza place, which they enjoyed a little too much.)

The final leg of that year, when everything came together, were probably his favorite parts; he had hired Finn and Bayley full-time, plus a couple of other people. And business, predictably, bloomed when those doors opened.

He turned the screen of his desktop on, opened the browser, and entered the address for the hospital in New York.

On the front page, with a huge smile on her face, was Becky, posing with a pair of doctors - one of which was a tall blonde woman who Roman discovered was the daughter of the person in New York Hunter had been talking to about the fellowship - and he felt himself sink into his chair a bit.

_“ I might not be able to fill the position. But, I know someone more than qualified, with double my skills.”_

**_“I’m listening.”_ **

_"There's a doctor back in Florida who's been working her ass off, top of her class, worked right alongside me when she came up and surpassed me easily. Rebecca Lynch."_

She had sent him a text message after she got the job, and he had called her and enthusiastically congratulated her. They had talked for an hour, exchanged e-mails and Skypes, and Roman promised to keep her up to date on all things Joelle, just like she promised to keep him as much in the loop of her relationship with the pretty blonde - _"Charlotte Flair,"_ Becky had beamed, which made Roman laugh.

After concluding that he had no new e-mails to reply to and, an hour later, finishing the paper work he had to fill out, Roman walked back out of his office and back toward the direction of the front lobby, leaning on the receptionist desk.

"Any more patients?"

"Doesn't look like it," Bayley hummed thoughtfully, turning the pages of their binder of appointments. Beaming suddenly, she looked up. "Nope, we're all done. Time to go!"

A lopsided grin appears on his face, because that meant he'd get to go home a couple of hours early.

* * *

There was a song Mox remembered Regal singing once, _What A Difference A Day Makes_ , and he couldn't believe just how true the words were - he used to spend his days clawing and screaming, walking a fine line between existing and being an actual living, breathing person. A lot of the time, the drugs had taken his mind off of just how aware he was of that line, but when he'd quit them he was forced into a different kind of awareness.

An awareness that he was alone, was poor.

After that, becoming a whore had been the difference between living and, well...

Everything was different now.

The wrestling gig had really taken off after he'd won the championship last year- he'd lost it, gotten it back, and fought people in-between - and he'd become a crowd favorite after that, becoming the seething Street Dog that everyone always said he was. He wasn't a good guy by any means, but they got behind him when he spewed hot nonsense, words like fire engulfing the attention of the audience.

Fire that swept through his lungs and made him burn, but, like whiskey, it was a good kind of burn.

A lot of new stuff, new opportunities, had fallen in his lap afterwards.

Other wrestling promotions had seen his matches - whether on YouTube or some other way, he wasn't totally sure - and had invited him to tapings, and he started working at other places along the east coast, wrestling some tamer shows but bringing the same intensity as always, and Jon Moxley was quickly becoming more popular.

Of course, that meant he was away a lot. But, one of the biggest things to have landed in his way over the past few years had given him a _place_ to land.

(A statement of itself that had proven frustrating at first, but quickly became something that brought the faintest of smiles to his face.)

He was driving in from a show in Massachusetts, body weary and bearing what would be a couple future scars from a particular match he was pretty sure he was going to keep secret from Roman - it was a clear autumn day, still warm enough that he was enjoying his window rolled down, his favorite thrasher band blasting from the stereo and sunglasses providing him some needed protection from the sun.

The leaves had changed while he was gone, green to gold, to red and orange and brown and it was something he actually really liked about living here. A faint grin of nostalgic familiarity crossed his lips and he drove down the road, teeth chewing idly on his thumb nail and fingers of his other hand tapping on the steering wheel.

* * *

It was heartwarming to see JoJo sitting by the window looking out at the street, waiting for the familiar flash of tan to pull up against the curb and the shaggy brown hair pop up out of the car; practically since she had first met him, JoJo had liked Mox, and she missed him when he went out of town. Coloring had been a huge comfort deal for her, the promise of being able to give him what she colored outweighing the small lilt of sadness.

(Granted, the first couple of days she is upset, but it was easier for her, now that she was used to it.)

Roman looks over from his spot at the stove, their dinner on its last leg before it was finished; he was making only the best for Mox's homecoming in the form of pot roast, potatoes and buttered noodles, something he had prepared early this morning and stuck in the slow-cooker while he was at work. The apartment smelled completely of the pot roast and potatoes, and it took every ounce of self-restraint Roman had not to tear into it then.

Because Joelle, the darling, wanted to wait for 'Moxxy' to get back so he could eat with them.

He takes out the potatoes from the oven, mixes them around on the cookie sheet to make sure they hadn't stuck to the bottom, and stirs the noodles on the stove. Dinner's done, now all that was missing was...

"Moxxy's home!" JoJo jumps up from her spot at the window, and soon enough, he hears a car door shut from outside. Roman turns, wipes his hands on his jeans, and allows a bubbly laugh to escape him as his daughter opens up the door - and mutters to himself in a good-natured rumble that he wasn't sharing their dinner with the whole block, _so close the door_ \- and her bare feet clunk on the stairs and her laughter rings out.

A few minutes later, she's running in with her hand clasping his fingers, practically dragging him through the door, even at his hoarse _I'm comin', Jo, I'm comin'!_

What Roman should have felt in that moment was overwhelming warmth, but instead, his eyes fall upon the shades over Mox's eyes, and he can't stop the wrinkle in his nose as he says, mock-disgusted, "I thought you got rid of those?"

The sunglasses are folded into the low neckline of his tank top, revealing blue eyes sparked with mischief, lips quirked up in a guiltless smirk. "Why would I get rid'a perfectly good shades? They look bad on everyone else, but on me baby, they look _awesome._ "

A roll of his eyes, then a beat of quiet, Roman lets the smile shine through, softening the lines in his face and showing white teeth. "Yeah, whatever you say. Hungry?"

And, same old Mox - there's a flash of something in his eyes, just before he answers, and for a second Roman's sure he's going to have to throw a towel over his entire head to shut him up, before he carefully takes his fingers out of JoJo's hand and scrubs them through his hair, before he moans dramatically, "I'm _starving._ "

When they sit down to eat, Mox talks animatedly - and as if he had completely forgotten what 'table manners' were - about his travels, leaving out some of the more gruesome details of his matches and instead opting for sharing the stories he'd lived, the people he'd met, and JoJo is eating it all up like it's dessert before dinner, all big brown eyes and smiles, and it was almost funny to think about how natural this all felt; sure, Mox still hadn't warmed up to the idea of calling this place 'home', which Roman didn't really mind, but he never would have thought that he'd even have had to worry about something like that.

The plan had never been to meet someone, maybe fall for them, and dig his feet in Cincinnati, but he was a shining example of the idea that things didn't always turn out the way you plan initially. And honestly, Roman wasn't exactly complaining either, as he looks across the table and sees the visible difference that a simple year had made, not just for himself, but for Mox too. The anger wasn't quite so much that an outburst stood with bated breath behind his teeth, and while it wasn't completely gone, the hesitance Jon had always felt before had faded.

It seemed that way. Roman _hoped_ it had.

JoJo is too excited about the things she'd colored for Mox to finish her dinner, and after she's excused from the table, she runs into her room, leaving the two men to talk alone for a couple of minutes.

"How long I get you this time?"

Mox pops a potato into his mouth with his fingers, drawing a sigh out of Roman. "Guess if you promise not to go all 'doctor' on me tonight, I might stay the full few days."

"I can't promise, but I'll try not to be too annoying about it."

After a moment of consideration, Mox swallows the potato, wipes his hand on his shirt - a shirt that, Roman realizes a second too late, is actually _his_ \- and lets out a little sound in his throat, one that drives Roman just a little bit crazy. "If yer' gonna do it, at _least_ put on a sexy nurse costume."

It shouldn't have made him laugh, but it did, and Roman picks up his napkin and wads it into a mishapen ball, tossing it in Mox's direction. "Dick."

"Oh, yeah. I want that, too."

JoJo walks in after that moment, halting any further comments on Roman's side, but Mox is all victorious as he sits back in his chair, choosing all the moments when JoJo is too transfixed on the pictures to leer at him over the top of them, making Roman cross his arms over his chest and smirk in return, like _you're gonna pay for that._

* * *

The bedroom is filled with the ragged sounds of their breathing and the soft creaks of the bed as Mox rides Roman, hair falling in front of his eyes; they had become experts at having sex quietly, what with a sleeping five year old being in the next room over, but it wasn't like either of them said much anyway.

Surprisingly enough, for all Mox liked to run his mouth in the ring and on a regular basis in general, he wasn't all that into dirty talk unless he was drunk. And Roman was more about physical attentions than verbal, running his fingers up and down his thin waist and squeezing his hips in a painfully-sweet way, making Mox's rhythm falter or a sound to slip past his lips that he'd otherwise deny.

They go until they're spent, Roman wrapping his arms around Mox, encasing him protectively as he shudders through his orgasm and the former leaves scrapes of teeth against his neck as he says "I gotcha" as Mox comes down; too much of this will make Mox uncomfortable, Roman knows that by now, so he waits for his body to stop trembling and prepares for the chill that Mox sliding off of him will bring to his chest.

It doesn't come. Not in the way he assumed, anyway.

Mox slides off, slips back into his sweatpants - the same pair he'd commandeered off of Roman - and collapses beside him, puffing his bangs out of his eyes, too lazy to reach up and brush them off of his forehead. Of course, this pulls a soft laugh out of Roman.

"Should probably get a haircut."

Without skipping a beat, the drawled reply is, "Should pro'lly get 'em _all_ cut."

As Mox sniggers to himself - because he's just so hilarious - Roman groans, but finds himself content still when he feels Mox's arm brush against his own, to which he responds by wrapping it around so he can pull him in close. "Been thinkin' about gettin' it real short, but havin' my bangs in my eyes is kinda part'a my look."

"Gotta look like a shaggy dog, right?"

A huff, then, "Figures; come back after a few weeks, no 'welcome home' or nothin', just 'should pro'lly get a haircut'."

It doesn't dawn on Roman until after Mox has fallen asleep, features and snores soft in equal measure, that it was the first time Mox had ever said this place was 'home', and he'd managed to do it in such a _Mox_ way that he hadn't even really noticed.

Before sleep pulls him under too, he nudges his nose into Mox's hair and breathes " _Welcome home, Jon_ ," onto his skin, lips pulling into a small smile, and feeling Mox's do the same as he tucks himself just a little closer, enough to drape one of his legs over one of Roman's.


End file.
